


Stormseeker: Forgotten Destiny

by Serriya (Keolah)



Series: Codex Veritatum [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic
Genre: Dimension Travel, Gen, Humor, Immortality, POV First Person, Paganism, Present Tense, Ritual Magic, Slytherin Harry Potter, Slytherin Hermione Granger, Slytherin Ron Weasley, Soul Bond, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:29:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5942016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keolah/pseuds/Serriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexen Skywalker, also known as the former Sith Lord, Darth Revan, returns to Hogwarts in attempt to recover some of his lost memories, and discovers that there he had gone by the name Harry Potter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Forgotten Destiny

My name is Lexen Skywalker Chelseer, the Stormseeker. Darth Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith. You know, let's be honest here. I have more names and titles than I can even remember, and I'm not sure that I care. Who am I, really? I am myself, first and foremost, but I have forgotten so much it's hard to be certain of anything beyond that.

And so, to that end, I have returned to Torn Elkandu, and wander its rune-covered streets in hopes of sparking a memory. And yet the swirling purple sky holds no answers, and the silvery-grey buildings tell no tales. I never spent much time here, I think. I will find nothing here. Perhaps, though, if I retread my steps upon other worlds, I might rediscover a portion of what I have lost.

Where might I have gone first, I wonder? Perhaps it's where I would want to go now. My knowledge of Force powers is severely lacking. What I have done, I have done on instinct rather than skill. I have forgotten more about the Force than most people will ever know, and for all that, I fear it will still take years to relearn it all.

I walk up to the center of Torn Elkandu, in the heart of the city, toward the Nexus. Eight runed obelisks curve upward toward the unearthly sky. Beside it stands a Sephi woman, pointed ears poking out from beneath her auburn hair, silver eyes gazing off at nothing in particular with a glazed expression.

After a minute, she notices me. "Ah, Stormseeker. Where do you want to go today?"

"Can you tell me someplace where I can learn?" I ask.

She points off to one of the roads. "Right over that way is the School of Thought. You can learn all about Elkandu magic there."

I shake my head. "Yeah, but that's not really what I'm looking for right now. Can you tell me someplace else, some other world?"

"Ah, well, in that case, there are plenty of options available to you." She raises a hand, and images of distant realms shimmer before my eyes. Towers, castles, caverns… Something tugs at my mind. Some of them seem vaguely familiar.

"That one there," I say. "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Can you get me there?"

"Of course," Keolah says, and focuses for a moment. "There. I have calibrated the Nexus for you. Head on through."

I step into the circle between the obelisks, and swirling mists surround me. When the mists clear, the purple sky has been replaced by a blue one, and the ethereal roads by grass at the edge of a primitive village. A large lake gleams nearby, reflecting a single sun. Across the water, an ancient castle spires into the sky. The feeling that I had while looking at the image is stronger here. I know I've been here before. I have been here many, many times before. This is not the place where I spent my childhood, but I feel like I have spent years, lifetimes here. Have I come home? Was this really a home to me? Maybe not the only home I ever had, to be sure, but this was definitely a home to me.

"Lovely day, isn't it?"

I jump in surprise and spin around quickly, and find myself looking into the twinkling eyes of an old Jedi wearing ostentatious purple robes that no true Jedi would ever be caught dead in.

His eyes widen in surprise as well. "Harry? Could it be?"

Harry Potter. Yes, that was the name they called me in this world. I have gone by so many names in so many different places that that at least doesn't even faze me. "Yeah. That's me."

"How is this possible?" the Jedi wonders. I feel him using the Force, gently brushing against my mind. I don't know what he might see, but I don't bother trying to stop him. I have nothing to hide. I suspect right now, all he's going to get are vague memories of having been Harry Potter, and the feeling of confusion and hope. They called me the hope of a thousand worlds, once. Maybe I finally lived up to that, in breaking the chain that would have led the multiverse down a terrible path to inevitable destruction.

"Time travel," I reply. "Dimension travel. I don't think I'm the Harry Potter that was originally from this world."

"You don't have the scar," the Jedi says. No, Dumbledore. His name is Dumbledore.

I nod. "So I don't. I suspect I'm from an alternate universe in which the event that gave me that scar did not take place."

Dumbledore sighs. "Yes, I would imagine so. I'm afraid the Harry Potter that is native to this universe unfortunately died several years ago. You're the right age, though, and you have no idea how glad I am to see you."

"Well, if you need a Harry Potter, then you've got a Harry Potter, for what it's worth," I say.

"Come," Dumbledore says. "Let us speak further in my office."

"Yes, of course," I say.

* * *

"Sherbet lemon?" Dumbledore asks, offering me some candy.

"Sure," I say with a chuckle, accepting one and popping it into my mouth. The Headmaster's office is almost as ostentatious as Dumbledore's robes, full of bizarre contraptions I cannot identify, bookshelves, and portraits that blink at me and look at me thoughtfully. It's a little unnerving.

"Tell me, Harry, what brings you to this universe?" Dumbledore asks. "Did you come in hopes of saving us and defeating Voldemort?"

"Not precisely," I say. "The name sounds familiar… a Dark Lord? No, mostly I'm here to try to put my scattered memories together. My mind is a mess, as you might have noticed."

"Still, you are Harry Potter, and you are here," Dumbledore says. "I will do what I can to assist you in that, but I am not certain how much help I may be. I have never seen mental damage quite like this. Even merely a badly cast Obliviation spell would not have done this."

"Things seem familiar, though. Just being in familiar settings is giving me bits and pieces, flashes of images here, feelings of insight there."

"Perhaps going to Hogwarts again would help, then," Dumbledore suggests. "You would be the right age for it."

"Didn't you say this universe's Harry died, though?" I ask. "Wouldn't anyone realize he was supposed to be dead?"

Dumbledore shakes his head. "No. Harry was in hiding from the wizarding world, and those who knew about it were Obliviated."

"So nobody knows he's dead?"

"That is correct," Dumbledore says. "You could fill in for him easily. The only difference is the scar."

"This scar is important?" I ask.

"Quite so," Dumbledore says. "It is the mark that was left behind when Voldemort cast the Killing Curse upon our universe's Harry. The spell backfired upon him instead, destroying Voldemort's physical body. I doubt he is truly dead, though, and believe he may have taken measures before this to ensure his continuation."

"What, like clones?"

Dumbledore looks at me in confusion. "Suffice it to say that I believe he still lingers in this world in a wraith-like half-life."

"Ah," I say. "Alright, I'll see what I can do about that."

"Your courage does you credit, that you would step up even when you have no idea what you might face."

I chuckle. "First, though, is there anything that can be done about this famous scar? Can you duplicate it?"

"I believe so," Dumbledore says. "Are you certain about this, Harry?"

"Of course," I say without hesitation, smiling a bit.

Dumbledore pulls out his wand — his very familiar wand — and points it at me. I tense involuntarily and force myself to suppress the impulse to dodge or defend myself. He utters one word in an unearthly tongue, and a blast of Dark Side energy strikes my forehead with the strength of a Star Destroyer. Blinded in pain, I double over, pressing a hand to my forehead, wet and bleeding.

"Harry?" Dumbledore says in concern, putting a hand on my shoulder. Rather than being reassuring, I reflexively interpret it as an attack and fling myself back, pushing Dumbledore away from me with the Force. Crash! The old Jedi — what kind of Jedi even knows a technique like that? — smashes into the far wall, pieces of devices flying.

I clench my eyes shut and breath deliberately. I am the eye of the storm. I am in control of myself. I will do nothing but by choice. Even prepared for it, the force of the attack had taken me by surprise. My head is splitting with pain, and blood is running down my face.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Dumbledore says, pulling himself out of the wreckage. "Are you alright? Let me get you something for that."

I let out a heavy breath, opening my eyes, then immediately regretting it from the blood running into them. "No, I'm alright. I'm alright. I really hope that that does the trick, though."

Something soft and damp presses against my face, wiping away the blood and soothing the pain a bit. I don't even know why I agreed to this. Couldn't someone have just said that I had my scar healed, or covered up, or something? That would have been so much easier. Oh well, what's done is done, and I should have a perfectly lovely scar from this, once I can see straight enough to look in a mirror at any rate.

My face clean, I blink slowly and assess the damage. "Sorry for throwing you into a wall and breaking all your things."

"Not a worry, my boy," Dumbledore says. "it's a perfectly understandable accidental magic response to a perceived threat." He waves his wand over the desk, and all the little doodads pull themselves back together again.

I slump down in a chair and put my face in my hands to settle myself. "Alright. I'm alright, just give me a few to steady myself. So what's the story? Where am I from? Where am I supposed to have been the past several years?"

"Judging by your accent, I'd say it would be best to claim that you were raised in the Colonies."

"The accent?" I say. "Oh, I can do an Imperial accent as well."

"If this one is more comfortable to you, it may be best to simply stick with it," Dumbledore says. "Having been in the Colonies would be as good an explanation as any to where you have been for the past ten years."

"Alright," I say. "I can do a bit of research and figure out just what I'm supposed to know about these Colonies — which planet in particular?"

Dumbledore blinks and says, "Which… planet? Ah, pardon me. I meant on the same planet. You may wish to avoid mentioning other planets."

"Right, got it," I say. "Haven't colonized other planets yet. See what I mean?" I chuckle. "Well, no worries. I'll figure it out. Just point me to your data repositories, terminals, holocrons, whatever you use to store information around here."

Dumbledore's eyes twinkle. "We use these things called 'books'."

"Oh, wonderful," I groan.

* * *

I step out of my room at the Leaky Cauldron on my birthday, excited at finally getting a chance to see the world outside of Dumbledore's suite. I'd spent the past month there reading and bring drilled on information about this world before Dumbledore would even think about letting me go anywhere. Just as well, really, or I might put my foot in my mouth talking about other planets and Jedi. It's going to take work to think "magic" instead of "the Force", and "wizards" instead of "Jedi".

Today, as my first real task since I arrived back here, I'm going to gather my school supplies and not make a complete fool of myself. And preferably avoid dying along the way. I know I'm immortal and all, but it's still painful and inconvenient to have to redo a day, and I'm still not sure that I entirely want to trust that I no longer forget things when I die. My mind is enough of a mess as it is.

And so, my first stop is a bank called Gringotts, vault key in hand, to obtain spending money for my school supplies. Within the ornate, archaic building, the small, green aliens that run the bank saunter about on their jobs. It's comforting to see aliens here. Some Sith would insist that only humans are worthy (and others that pureblooded red Sith are the only ones that are worthy). Me, I feel like the universe would be a much emptier place if humanity were the only thing to it.

One cart ride later, I emerge into Diagon Alley with a bag full of local currency. I pull out the list of items that I'm supposed to be getting. Let's see here. School uniforms, books, potion ingredients, some tools, and a wand. Looking the part is important when trying to blend in, so I decide to head for the tailor first.

"I'll get to you in a moment, dear," says the seamstress, not looking up from the blond boy she's fitting. "I'll be done with young Mr. Malfoy here shortly."

"Oh, don't mind me," I say, smiling. "I've all the time in the world. I would hate for Mr. Malfoy to be poorly dressed."

Malfoy chuckles and looks at me appraisingly. "Getting ready for Hogwarts too?"

I nod. "First year."

"Me too," Malfoy says. "You know what House you'll be in?"

I look at him blankly. For all the books Dumbledore made me read, I didn't really learn anything about Hogwarts itself. "Ah, no, sorry. I was raised in the States and I've only been in Britain for a month. I don't really know much about Hogwarts yet, I'm afraid."

"Oh, well. There's four of them. There's Gryffindor, for the reckless ones with more courage than brains. Ravenclaw, for the people who just want to study all the time. Hufflepuff, who just kind of mop up the leftovers. And of course, Slytherin, for the cunning and ambitious—"

"Slytherin," I reply casually, without even bothering to give him a chance to finish. I wonder which House I was in before, but Slytherin just feels right to me.

Malfoy grins. "Sure of that, huh."

"If anyone tries to put me in anything with a name like Hufflepuff, I might just have to electrocute someone."

"There you go, Mr. Malfoy, all ready now," the seamstress says, shooing him with a hand and gesturing me up.

Malfoy — Draco Malfoy, now I remember his name — lets me up to get my measurements taken, but doesn't move to leave the shop yet. "I'm sure I'll be in Slytherin, too. My whole family has been."

"Really," I say. "I suppose it stands to reason, at times. I've known people who unexpectedly took after their parents without ever having known anything about them." I was a Sith Lord, myself, and had realized millennia too late that my own father was also a Sith Lord.

"True, that's interesting," Malfoy says. "What's your surname, anyway?"

"Potter," I reply.

"Potter? As in, Harry Potter?"

I nod. "That's right."

"My father told me you were about my age, but I didn't think I'd meet you before school."

"Just turned eleven today." I grin.

"And you think you'll be in Slytherin?" Malfoy wonders. "I thought your parents were in Gryffindor."

I snort softly. "I'm not going to be in Gryffindor. Maybe, in some other lifetime, if I were a reckless idiot with no sense of self-preservation and a saving-people-thing."

"What about the Dark Lord?" Malfoy asks. "He killed your parents. You don't want to avenge them?"

Millennia spent seeking vengeance for a father I never knew, only to find out that the man I'd believed was their killer was actually my father himself. I sigh. "So they say. For all I know, the Dark Lord is actually secretly my father instead."

Malfoy's eyes widen. "You think the Dark Lord might be your father?"

"I said it was a possibility," I say. "I know better than to take things at face value or to waste my life on a pointless quest for vengeance. I really have better things to do with my time. For starters, I'm going to be the next Dark Lord."

The seamstress' hands falter and she pricks me with a needle. "Oh! Sorry there, Mr. Potter."

I snicker. "Yeah, don't worry about it."

"You?" Malfoy says. "A Dark Lord?"

"Yep," I say offhandedly. "I'll totally bogart the title. Nobody gets to be a Dark Lord around here but me."

"I can see why you think you'll be in Slytherin," Malfoy says. "You're planning world domination already?"

"That depends on how incompetent the people currently running the world are," I say. "If there's one thing I can't stand, it's that."

The seamstress finishes up and says, "You're all ready now, um, Dark Lord Potter."

I look at her for a moment, then laugh aloud. "Come on, that just sounds silly. Hey, Malfoy, want to get some ice cream?"

* * *

After collecting the rest of my school supplies, I head for Ollivanders to find a wand for myself. It seems both strange and natural to be using a wand rather than merely using the Force by one's concentration and will. There are times that I hate these half-remembered feelings.

The building seems smaller than it ought to be, and is packed full with tight shelves piled high with oblong boxes. An old man climbs down from a ladder and approaches me. "Another young wizard looking for a wand? What's your name, my boy?"

"Harry Potter," I tell him.

"Is it now?"

I chuckle. "Yeah."

Ollivander nods. "Which is your wand arm, Mr. Potter?"

"I'm left-handed," I reply.

"Well, let's see about finding you a wand, then," Ollivander says. "The wand chooses the wizard, in a way. We'll have to find a good match for you." He goes over to a shelf to pull out a box.

I frown thoughtfully. At first I had assumed that wands were like lightsabers, and while they could be personal, most Jedi would wind up making one of their own at some point. "How does that work?" I wonder. "I'm not just getting, like, a training wand or something?"

Ollivander chuckles. "No, barring any unfortunate circumstances, this wand will serve you for the rest of your life. Here, try this one out."

I take the proffered wand and examine it. It feels strange, but looks like just wood. Looks can be deceiving of course, and I can readily sense the Force flowing within it. "What are they made of? Is there like a crystal in there or something?"

"This one is made from maple wood and unicorn hair," Ollivander says. "Go ahead, give it a wave."

I swish the stick through the air, but nothing happens. "Was something supposed to happen there?" I shrug and put it back on the desk.

"Alright, let's try another one, then," Ollivander says, unfazed. He brings out a second wand, this one longer and of a slightly different design. "Redwood and phoenix feather, twelve inches."

"So are they all made from the parts of creatures?" I wonder, examining this latest wand. This one feels quite different from the last, the Force coming through in a different color or flavor, so to speak. I twirl the wand in my fingers, and a cloud of noxious smoke fills the room.

Coughing, Ollivander casts a quick spell to clear the air and takes back the redwood wand without missing a beat. "Generally, yes." He brings out another box. "Pine, dragon heartstring, thirteen inches."

My eyes widen, and I don't touch the wand, even though I feel drawn to it in a way that I hadn't with the others. "Dragon _heartstring_? You mean a dragon _died_ to make this wand? You couldn't have just used the scales or something? The other wands were made of parts of the creatures they could live without."

"This is true, but—"

I shake my head. I don't care right now. This wand is singing to me. I can feel it even from here. Maybe if I'd realized it, I would have been able to simply walk down the shelves and pick it out blindfolded. Holding my breath, I take the wand from him. A jolt of electricity shoots down my arm as my fingers grasp the handle. I remember this wand. _I remember this wand._ In an eyeblink, a thousand moments of memory flash through my mind, of casting spells with this wand.

Not just that. When I picked up Revan's mask, while I had memory of it and the mask still held an echo of the Force, it was merely that, from that timeline. This wand remembers me. I can feel a sense of familiarity, of being glad to see me again, of having waited for untold years, of reclaiming a piece of myself that had long been lost.

Laughing in pure joy, I spin the wand about my head, showering the room in radiant blue sparks.

* * *

"Harry, my boy, I understand you've declared yourself the next Dark Lord," Dumbledore says with a touch of concern.

"Yep," I say casually while munching on a sandwich.

"Why?"

"Nobody else gets to be a Dark Lord if I have anything to say about it," I say. "Certainly not that Voldemort fellow."

Dumbledore frowns. "I do hope you're not intending on starting a bloody war or attempting to take over the world."

"Not if I can help it," I say. "Wars are pointless and slaughter is counterproductive. It's generally best to harm as few people as possible to get your point across. As for the latter, no promises. If the government annoys me too much, I may have to overthrow them and get somebody less incompetent to run it instead. I certainly don't want to."

Dumbledore seems only slightly mollified by that. "Do you have a propensity for using the Dark Arts?"

"I'd as soon cut off my left hand as reject the Dark Side," I comment. "But on the other hand," I snicker, "I'd as soon cut off my right hand as reject the Light Side. A million upstart Dark J—Wizards might flaunt around being dumb. I'd like to think I'm not dumb. Maybe that's just arrogance speaking." I shrug.

"Why Dark Lord, then?" Dumbledore wonders.

"Because I'm Darth Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith," I say with a chuckle. "Well, not here at least. And the name's a little…" I sigh. "I was Revan, Lord of Revenge. I spent far too much time and emotion seeking vengeance for one wrong or another. I learned the hard way the futility of revenge. I made a terrible mistake. One that I will not repeat."

"I see," Dumbledore says thoughtfully, and nods. "You should be careful about what the public thinks of you, though. People will get the wrong impression of you right away. The rumors are already spreading. You were not particularly subtle or private about your words."

"If people will judge me as the Boy-Who-Lived, the Dark Lord Potter, however stupid of names those are, without knowing anything else about me or whatever I may or may not have actually done, they are fools, easily swayed by opinions and words." I sigh. "Judge a person by their deeds. Words can be a lie. Many people are swayed only by words, though, I know. I can deal with them." I hold up a finger. "If people start off expecting something bad, and get something better than that, they will be extremely pleased, whereas if they started off expecting something good, and got worse, even if it were the same thing as the previous example, then they will be extremely displeased."

"I do hope you know what you're doing," Dumbledore says with a sigh. "And that this is all somehow for the greater good."

I make a face. "I have seen more suffering come out of 'the greater good' than out of people merely working in their own self-interest."

Dumbledore looks away with a haunted expression and says quietly, "Yes, I fear you are right about that."


	2. Return to Hogwarts

All the snatches of memory don't really prepare me for riding the train to Hogwarts. Somewhere along the line, someone failed to mention to me how to get onto Platform 9 3/4, and I hadn't even realized that this would be a thing to ask, until I got here.

"Packed with Muggles, as always!" declares a redheaded woman leading a troupe of redheads of varying ages.

I sigh inwardly and come up behind her. "There's no need to be racist," I say.

Dumbledore wouldn't let me set foot outside without knowing about Muggles and the Statute of Secrecy. Without knowledge of how the Force works, though, I might have mistaken Muggles for simply humans who didn't happen to be Force-sensitive, but I know perfectly well that the Force doesn't work that way. All humans have some degree of Force sensitivity. Therefore, it stands to reason that Muggles must be a near-human alien species that isn't attuned to the Force. Although given their superficial similarity to humans, it's likely that many mixed-bloods and humans with little Force sensitivity are being mistaken for Muggles.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm not the ones you should be apologizing to," I say with a wry grin. "But never mind that."

"Are you heading to Hogwarts too, young man?" the woman asks. Her name, what was her name? She seems familiar. I knew her. I didn't know her well, but I knew her. Damnit, you know what, I would probably be getting this feeling all the time even if I didn't have time-travel related memory issues. Like I can remember the name of everyone I've ever met.

"First year," I say with a nod.

"Oh, that's wonderful. It's Ron's first year, too." She gestures toward the youngest of the boys.

"Nice to meet you," I say. "Now, racism aside, could you tell me how to get onto the platform?"

The youngest child, a girl, pipes up, "Mum, are you sure I can't go yet?"

"Not until next year, Ginny," the woman replies, then turns to me. "You just have to—"

"Blimey," says one of the twin boys. "Could it be?"

"I believe it is," says the other.

"Tell us, what's your name?"

"Do we stand in the presence of the next Dark Lord?" They seem completely unable to keep a straight face through their feigned awe.

I chuckle. "I'm Harry Potter."

The woman — Mrs. Weasley. I can't remember her first name, but their last name is Weasley — pales visibly. "Fred, George, don't make things like that up."

"But it's true!" Ginny insists. " _The Quibbler_ says—"

Mrs. Weasley sighs. " _The Quibbler_ also says that he's a time traveler from another dimension and that he has a pair of pet monkeys. Now, I know Luna is your friend and all, but you shouldn't believe half the things that her father prints in his magazine."

My eyes widen and I perk up at that. That's too specific to be a coincidence. This Luna or her father must know something, and what's more, put out a signal to me that they knew something, disguised as nonsense. I'm going to need to look into this.

"A pair of pet monkeys, is it?" I say with a grin. "Are their names Fred and George, by chance?"

"Brother of mine, I believe we've been made," says one of the twins.

I clear my throat. "As entertaining as this is, perhaps we should get to the train before it leaves. I'd hate to have to fly there. I'm rubbish at flying."

"Oh, yes, of course," Mrs. Weasley says. "Just head straight for the barrier like it's not there. If you think you'll run into it, it won't let you through."

Raising my eyebrow at her, I say, "Well, okay then." My first thought is that it's a silly means of concealing a doorway, but after a moment's consideration I think that using the Force to trick people into believing that it's a wall is kind of clever. I bid the Weasleys good day and head on through.

* * *

I find an empty compartment and settle in for the ride. Maybe I should do a bit more reading along the way and see if I can learn a bit more about what I need to be prepared for, but I think I'd rather just relax and enjoy the view.

The compartment door opens and the red-haired boy from before steps in. "Excuse me, everywhere else is full up. Do you mind if I sit here?"

"Ron, wasn't it?" I say.

His eyes widen. "You remembered my name."

I snicker softly. "Well, yeah. I only met you five minutes ago. It usually takes me at least ten minutes to forget someone's name."

Ron grins hesitantly. "Yeah. I'm Ron Weasley."

"Tell me, Ron." I pin him with a gaze. "Are you as racist as your mother?"

Ron stammers, "I'm not— She's not— What?"

"'Packed with Muggles as always'?" I repeat.

"Oh," Ron says. "Um. I'm not racist. I don't hate Muggles or anything."

"There's more to racism than just hatred," I say. "Are we better than them, just because we have magic? Are they cute, quaint, unworthy of consideration as people?" I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lecture you. I was raised by a lovely Muggle family in the States, and ever since I got back to the kingdom of my birth, I've been shocked and baffled at the attitudes people take toward them."

Ron shifts uneasily. "But what about that Dark Lord stuff?"

"Oh, yeah," I say. "Yeah, I'm probably going to have to take over the world. The Statute of Secrecy has to come down with the least amount of bloodshed and turmoil we can manage, for one thing. That's a mess just waiting to happen. And if there's anyone too incompetent in a position where that incompetence is going to harm people, I will need to kick their ass and put someone less stupid in charge."

"That… doesn't really sound like that much of a Dark Lord," Ron says.

"Of course," I say brightly. "Why not? I can be Darth Revan—"

A bushy-haired girl pokes her head in and says with a smirk, "Oh, I didn't realize there were any Sith Lords on this train."

My eyes widen in surprise and a broad grin spreads across my face. "Well, would you prefer I be a good Jedi, stick to the Light Side of the Force, and tell kids they're evil for being scared and having hormones?"

"Would you rather be a short-tempered lunatic who Force-chokes minions for minor mistakes and electrocutes people for fun?" She grins. "I'm Hermione Granger. Does the Dark Lord of the Sith have a name, or shall I just call you Darth Revan?"

"I'm Harry Potter, and you're my new best friend."

Hermione looks as though she's almost being Force-choked herself. "You want to be my friend?"

"Hell yes," I say. "I mean, look at Ron here." I gesture to the blank-faced redhead. "He probably has no idea what we're going on about."

Ron blinks slowly. "I think you're both barmy. Is this a Muggle thing?"

"Right, speaking of which," I say, turning back to Hermione. "What do you think about Muggles?"

"What should I think? My parents are Muggles," Hermione says. "I didn't even know I was a witch until two months ago. It was quite the surprise."

I nod. "I think we are going to get along splendidly, then. Wizards seem to have terrible attitudes toward Muggles. But they don't think to look at it like, that Sith Lord might be a badass with the Dark Side, but he can't accomplish much without a fleet, and he might still get taken out by one pissed off Mandalorian with a heavy blaster."

Hermione grins. "That's true."

Ron sighs in exasperation. "Do either of you care to translate what any of that means?"

"It means," Hermione explains slowly, "that an evil wizard might be skilled with the Dark Arts, but he can't do much by himself, and one Muggle with a gun might stop him."

I have to wonder just how she knows about my universe, unless she's a dimension traveler like me and is also giving a cover story about her origin. She didn't actually seem overly surprised about what I was saying, either. That doesn't really make sense, given what Dumbledore said. Another thing to look into.

"You mean to tell me that a _Muggle_ could have defeated You-Know-Who?" Ron says incredulously.

"Remember what I said about racism?" I point out.

Ron grumbles. "Fine. Just so long as one of you tells me what this Sith stuff or whatever it was you two are talking about is from."

"They're movies, Ron," Hermione says, then at his still-confused expression, adds, "Muggle entertainment. They have a big screen with pictures that move and talk, to tell a story."

Thank you, Ron, for asking the stupid question so I didn't have to.

"Oh!" Ron says. "That's pretty cool. I didn't realize Muggles had stuff like that."

"Maybe when we go on holiday sometime we can show you," Hermione suggests. "We can watch the _Star Wars_ movies with the VCR — I mean, there's little boxes that remember things to show you later."

So, this universe that I just spent many years of my life in exists as fictional entertainment in this universe? There's no way that could possibly be coincidence. Did someone from the " _Star Wars_ " universe come here and create these movies? Or is there a weirder explanation? Maybe people see other possible universes in their dreams like I did. My circumstances were weird, to be sure, but why couldn't the imagination be a gateway to other universes? And maybe when people explored other universes through the Nexus, they were able to orient themselves and locate them because they had seen them in a movie or something. Something to think about.

An old woman pushing a cart full of food comes down the aisle, and says, "Anything off the trolley, dears?"

"How about a little bit of everything?" I ask. "Oh, and do you happen to have any copies of _The Quibbler_?"

"Certainly," she says, passing over a few handfuls of treats and a magazine, and I give her payment. "Here you go, enough sweets to fill your bellies, and one copy of _The Quibbler_. Enjoy your ride to Hogwarts!"

Ron looks askance at me. "You'd read that rag?"

I grin. "I just have to see what it says about those pet monkeys I'm supposed to have."

"Harry, all those sweets are going to rot your teeth," Hermione admonishes me.

"Don't care," I say, opening up a Cauldron Cake. "Want some?" I offer the treats to Ron and Hermione.

"Really? Sure!" Ron says, taking a box of Bernie Bott's Every Flavour Beans.

"Well, I suppose these Pumpkin Pasties don't look too sugary," Hermione says, cautiously taking a bite of one.

I flip through _The Quibbler_. Apparently the lead singer of the band Moontide is secretly a fox?

The compartment door opens again to admit Draco Malfoy. "There you are, Potter. I've been looking all over for you." He glances aside to my companions. "Who's with you here? Is that a Weasley you're sitting with?"

"Ron Weasley. Is that a Malfoy standing in the door?"

Malfoy nods tersely. "Draco Malfoy."

"I'm Hermione Granger," she says between bites.

"I haven't heard of any wizarding family named Granger," Malfoy says.

"I'm the first in my family to be magical," Hermione explains.

Malfoy raises an eyebrow. "A Weasley and a Mu—Muggleborn? Has Harry mentioned the whole 'planning to be the nest Dark Lord' thing to you two?"

"He gave me candy," Ron says.

"He likes _Star Wars_ ," Hermione says.

Malfoy puts his face in his palm.

"Want a Chocolate Frog?" I offer.

"Is this the sort of company you want to keep?" Malfoy says. "The Weasleys are so poor they can hardly afford to clothe their children. And Muggleborns—"

I stand up and take Malfoy by the arm, and say to Ron and Hermione, "Excuse us for a minute."

I pull him out of the compartment and into the next one, which is empty. Weird, Ron had said everywhere was full. Well, I needed an empty compartment and I got one.

"What are you doing, Potter?"

"Malfoy," I say quietly. "I could ask the same thing of you."

"What do you mean?" Malfoy says. "I'm just saying, you shouldn't go around associating with the wrong sort. Some wizarding families are better than others, after all."

I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. "Whether you think that or not, whether it's true or not, this isn't the sort of appearance you want to put out."

"What do you mean?"

"This is beneath you," I say. "Have some pride in your heritage. Are you a noble scion of House Malfoy, or just a school bully?"

Malfoy opens his mouth, speechless for a minute. "But—"

I hold up a finger. "Don't underestimate the power of allies. You alienate people right out the gate, you could miss an opportunity. A peasant can bring down a king. A servant can gather information unnoticed. And an army needs soldiers, not just generals."

Malfoy grouses. "Well, that may be true, but you don't spend time with your servants and soldiers."

I grin. "And why not?"

"Because— they're—"

"You have a fresh start here," I say. "It's up to you what sort of impression you want to leave, because it may be hard to change later. Do you want to be hated, feared, or loved? Do you want to be a noble hobnobbing only with those of your station, or do you want to stand proud and be looked up to?"

"My father—"

"—is his own man," I interrupt. "Do you want to live in your father's shadow all your life? Make your own choices, and own them, whatever you choose. Do you want to be an aloof lord, or a friend to your people? Let me tell you, I'd rather have friends than subjects. Subjects do what they must, because they're obligated to. Friends will do things for you by choice. Servants will follow your orders and balk and hesitate in the face of danger. True friends will be loyal to the death."

"You're suggesting that I make _friends_ with blood traitors and Mudbloods?" Malfoy says.

I chuckle. "Yes. I am. I'm pointing out that it's an option that could potentially benefit you more than shunning them. Either way, though, please don't sully your family name by lowering yourself to be a mere bully. It's demeaning."

Malfoy sighs. "Yeah, I guess you have a point there."

"So," I say, offering my hand. "Are you with me, Malfoy? Do you want to be my friend?"

He stares at my hand for several long moments as if considering and weighing his options. Finally, he takes a deep breath and shakes my head. "Call me Draco."

I smile at him. "Well then, Draco, let's go see if Ron and Hermione haven't eaten all the candy yet, shall we?"

We head back into the other compartment, where Ron is finishing up the last of the Every Flavour Beans and Hermione is inspecting a Cauldron Cake.

"Um," Draco says hesitantly, looking at the floor, then says in a strained voice like every word is dragged out of him with a hook, "I'm sorry. Let's be friends."

Ron's eyes widen and he looks at me incredulously. "Harry, I think you broke Malfoy. What did you _say_ to him?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Oh, shut up," he grumbles, though without any malice to his tone.

I laugh and hand him a Chocolate Frog. "Guys, I'd like you to meet my new friend, Draco."

"Hi," Draco says uncertainly.

"I was trying to explain movies to Ron again," Hermione says with a sigh.

"What are 'movies'?" Draco asks.

Hermione pins him with a look. "We're going to need to drag you to a cinema on holidays too. You'll see. It'll be great."

"I take it this is a Muggle thing?" Draco wonders. "You're a Mu—Muggleborn and all."

I take a bite of a licorice wand. "I don't really think there's such a thing as a 'Muggleborn' per se. Mixed blood, most likely, but Muggles can't do magic, so the potential had to come from somewhere. Her ancestors are probably just people with weak, latent magic."

"You mean like Squibs?" Draco says, eyes widening. "That… would actually make a lot of sense."

"Well, however it came about, I only found out I'm a witch two months ago," Hermione says. "I have a lot to learn and I've been reading whatever I can get my hands on to be prepared." She pauses and snickers. "I don't think anything could have prepared me for Harry Potter wanting to be a Dark Lord of the Sith, though."

"You won't learn much about our culture by reading, though," Draco says.

"I guess not," Hermione says. "Can you teach me?"

Draco grins. "I certainly can, if you're willing to listen, and learn, and be a part of this world and not just a tourist passing through staring at the sights in Diagon Alley."

"I'll listen," Hermione says.

Draco turns to Ron. "And you. Ron. What about you? I know your family stopped practicing the old rites."

"What rites?" Ron says blankly.

"You know. Samhain. Beltane. Yule. The wizarding holidays."

"Oh," Ron says. "What about them?"

Draco sighs. "We don't just call you 'blood traitors' because you like Muggles, you know. Your family abandoned the old ways. You probably didn't even really know about it, so it's… not really your fault, I guess. But I can give you the opportunity to reclaim your heritage."

"I don't know anything about that," Ron says.

"Yeah, I figured as much," Draco says. "Even Hogwarts celebrates Halloween and Christmas now, rather than the older traditions."

"But don't you give Christmas presents?" Ron wonders.

"We give Yule presents, and decorate a Yule tree, technically," Draco says. "Christmas happens to fall during Yule. You know those traditions were originally ours in the first place? I mean, what does a decorated tree have to do with the god who demanded that witches be killed?"

Hermione winces and bites her lower lip. "I don't think most Muggles really want us dead."

"Well, on a more positive note, I, for one, am quite interested in learning about these rites," I put in, not wanting this to degenerate too far just now. I feel like it's already been a great victory getting Draco to jump in like this. I don't remember any specifics, but I feel like he has been a close friend in more than one previous lifetime. Weirdly, I also seem to remember something about he and Hermione dating. I wonder if whatever I've started here will lead to that happening again.

"Yeah, okay," Ron says noncommittally.

Draco grins. "I'm sure you'll love it as much as I'll love movies, huh?"

* * *

"I wonder what they'll make us do to get in," Ron says as we're lined up in the castle entryway. "My brothers implied that it would be really painful, and they might make us wrestle a troll."

"Wrestling would seem counterproductive to a magic school," I comment. "Anyway, who told you that?"

"Fred and George," Ron says quietly.

I snort softly. "They would. Don't worry about it. We're eleven and we don't even know any magic yet. They're not going to give us any test we aren't capable of. Anyway, you don't need to be the bravest or cleverest person around. And I always say, work smarter, not harder. Think about what you really want out of life. You, not your family, not anyone else. You put your mind to it, you can achieve anything you can dream of, and maybe some things that you hadn't."

The doors open, and a bespectacled old woman leads us inside. "Welcome to Hogwarts. I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration teacher. Before we can begin, you must be Sorted into your Houses. They are Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Your House will be like your family during your time at Hogwarts. In order to Sort you, you must put the Sorting Hat on your head, and it will determine where you should be. When I call your name, step forward and try on the Hat. Abbott, Hannah!"

One by one, the first years are called up and given a House. After one Goyle, Gregory gets Sorted into Hufflepuff, Draco smirks. "Crabbe and Goyle in Hufflepuff. Totally my fault. I regret nothing."

"Granger, Hermione!" McGonagall calls.

Hermione goes up a little nervously and dons the Hat. It sits on her head for several long minutes, scrunching up its 'face', hemming and hawing as if in deep thought. I have to wonder what's going on over there, just what she or that Hat are thinking. Finally, the Hat calls out, "SLYTHERIN!"

Draco's eyes widen and he murmurs, "Really? A Muggleborn in Slytherin?"

"It's hardly the first time it's happened," mutters another boy next to us.

Hermione strolls over to the Slytherin table, less nervous now than I had thought she'd be. She seems to be happy with that decision. She'd been Sorted before us. She might suspect we'd be in Slytherin, but she couldn't know for sure. Maybe she was really suited for Slytherin, or that she'd wanted to be there of her own choice. Either way, I can't fault her for that.

After Longbottom, Neville becomes a Gryffindor, Draco is called up. The Hat seems to be very thoughtful about him as well. Curious. I had expected him to be a shoo-in for Slytherin. After a couple minutes, the Hat does shout out, "SLYTHERIN!" Draco goes over to sit next to Hermione at the table on the right side of the room.

A few more names later, and it's my turn. "Potter, Harry!" I head up to the front. I already know where I want to go. I have to wonder just what this Hat will see in my head as I put it on.

"Hmm, very interesting," the Hat says in my mind.

"I bet you say that to all the kids," I reply mentally.

"Oh, no, be assured that many eleven-year-olds are, indeed, quite boring."

I crack a grin at that. "So, what'll it be? If you're seeing much in there at all, you'll probably notice that I'd like to go to Slytherin, so how about it, unless you just want to sit here and chat for a bit? I'm game."

"I don't get many time travelers here, true, especially not amnesiac ones," the Hat tells me. "You don't even know for yourself how many times you've done this. You'd be readily suited to any of the Houses, and unless I miss my guess, you have very likely been in all of them at some point or another."

"Yeah, I don't really doubt it. I could see myself in any of them, with only slight changes to my mindset on going in."

"And yet, you're here to learn, but you're not primarily interested in learning. You're loyal to your friends, but you can stand on your own. You're braver than you give yourself credit for, but you'd prefer that you didn't have to be. And you're ambitious and clever, but you don't seek advancement for your own sake."

"Oh, come on," I think. "If you just list virtues, you might stoke my ego, but I'm never going to believe you."

"Fine, then. You deny it, but you're still a reckless idiot with no sense of self-preservation. You become obsessed with studying to the point of ignoring the world around you until your own house is on fire. You work hard even when you don't have to, wasting your time in the process. You claim that you don't want to rule the world, but you arrogantly believe that no one else can do it better. You are loyal to your friends, except when they do something you don't like and you murder them. You seek to save the world from itself and think you know best, even when, for all your experience, you know no better than anyone else. You are at the same time both the worst Jedi and the worst Sith. Yes, I can see that, too."

I wince. "Yeah, thanks for that. That I can believe."

"You're a strange not-really-kid. Anyway, enough chat. Feel free to stop by anytime. It gets boring in the office. Time to send you off to SLYTHERIN!"

I smile and take the Hat off my head. There's stunned silence about the Great Hall for a moment, followed by applause and cheers from the Slytherin table. There's one boo over from the Gryffindor table. I don't see the culprit, but he's quickly hit over the head by a red-haired boy.

"Go, go, Dark Lord Potter!" call out the Weasley twins in unison.

I laugh and yell over at them, "That's still a silly name!" I blow them a kiss and head over to the Slytherin table to sit with Draco and Hermione.

"I'm sure you'd prefer Darth Revan, right?" Hermione comments.

"Yep!" I say cheerfully. "I didn't expect to see you here, Hermione. I thought you'd be in Ravenclaw for sure."

"There's more to life than books," Hermione says. "What's the point in knowledge if you don't do anything with it?"

"I can get behind that," I say.

Several more students get sorted, and then "Weasley, Ron!" gets his name called. Ron heads over to the front and takes his turn with the Sorting Hat. It seems ready to say something right out of the gate, but then pauses even as it opens its mouth and reconsiders. Several long minutes pass, maybe even longer than Hermione had taken, though I wasn't really keeping track.

"What's taking so long?" whispers one of the older Slytherins. "He's a Weasley. The Hat can just send him to Gryffindor and be done with it."

"I guess it doesn't think it's that simple," I say.

"He's a Weasley. Of course it's simple. And he's simple."

"You don't even know him," I say.

"I don't have to," he says.

"What's your name?" I ask.

"Bole."

"So, are all Boles the same?"

"What—"

"SLYTHERIN!" the Sorting Hat interrupts.

"What!?" Bole exclaims.

"What!?" exclaims a red-haired boy from across the room. The twins smack him in unison.

Ron takes a deep breath and comes over to sit with us.

"Congratulations," Draco says. "For not being like the rest of your family."

Ron snorts softly. "The Hat tried to put me in Gryffindor anyway. For being brave enough to not just follow them blindly."

An older girl with a prefect badge comes up behind us. "Welcome to Slytherin. I'm Gemma Farley, one of your prefects. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble for being a Muggleborn, a Weasley, or the Boy-Who-Lived." She chuckles. "I, for one, am glad to have you all here, and I won't stand for any infighting among our House."

"Thanks," Ron says, "But can you protect me from my mum? She's gonna go spare."

Gemma grins. "Afraid I can't help with that, but I can dispose of any Howlers that come your way."

I wonder if Ron ever got sorted into Slytherin before, or Hermione for that matter. Or Crabbe and Goyle into Hufflepuff. I give a small shake of my head. This is my life to live. Not some past me that I only vaguely remember. Knowledge of the Force. New friends. And I'm determined to love every minute of it.

After "Zabini, Blaise" gets sorted into Slytherin, Dumbledore stands up at the front of the Great Hall.

"Welcome, one and all, to another exciting year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Before we begin the Opening Feast, first let me give a few words: Noodle! Curmudgeon! Zamboni! Spleen!"

"That was a speech?" Ron mutters, but doesn't say anything more about it as a great amount of delicious-looking food suddenly appears on the table before us, and he proceeds to dig in.

"I didn't expect you'd be that hungry after all the sweets you ate on the train," Hermione says, taking to her own food more delicately.

Draco sighs and hands Ron a napkin.


	3. Relearning

Ron, Draco, and I settle wearily into the first year Slytherin boys' dorm, where we meet the other two boys in our year, Blaise Zabini and Theodore Nott. Both of them seem tense, but while Theodore just tries to stay out of the way, Blaise comes into the middle like a coiled spring.

"Hope Hermione will be okay with the girls," I say quietly.

"Eh, she'll be fine, Muggleborn or otherwise," Draco says, shrugging. "Pansy and Daphne won't bite. Well, Pansy might. Most likely they'll just try to give her a makeover."

"Oh, that's bound to go swimmingly," I comment.

Ron flops down on his bed in his pajamas and says, "You know. Honestly. I didn't expect you all to be so… normal."

Blaise grins. "I'm not sure whether to be insulted or not."

"I mean, if you listened to my family, you're all a bunch of evil snakes out to cause misery for fun."

"Good job you didn't listen to your family, then," Blaise says.

Draco looks like he's still shellshocked over the day's events, and I can't say that I really blame him. His world has been basically turned upside down. And yet, for all that, he seems happy. He's spent the whole evening relaxed and smiling.

"For the record," Theodore Nott puts in, "I'd prefer to just be left alone, so please don't try to drag me into anything weird or stupid you lot decide to get up to."

I give him a broad grin. "What makes you think I'd get up to anything weird or stupid?"

Theodore waves a hand and snickers. "Somehow, you got a Muggleborn and a Weasley Sorted into Slytherin. And yes, I do think that was your doing, 'Darth Revan'."

I laugh. "Okay, I won't deny 'weird', but I draw the line at 'stupid'."

Ron holds up a finger. "Actually, it was more Draco's doing."

* * *

The next morning, at breakfast, I take a seat at the Slytherin table and look down at the food laid out on the table. Before me sits a stack of golden-brown pancakes, a square of butter melting on top of them from the warmth, drizzled in rich, golden maple syrup. When I take a bite, the flavor almost brings me to tears. Had I really forgotten the taste of pancakes? Pancakes of hope. Pancakes of potential. Pancakes of possibility. Terrible things may have happened to me in lifetime after lifetime, but they don't outweigh the joys. It's hard to believe that I would ever want to forget it all. If nothing else comes of this lifetime, the memory of pancakes made it all worth it.

"You look like you just got an early Yule present," Draco comments, looking over at me.

"Pancakes are my favorite food," I reply.

Blaise's eyes flick to Draco briefly, then he stares over at my plate. "Either these are the best pancakes ever, or you just _really_ like pancakes." He tastes a bite thoughtfully. "Hmm, they're pretty good, but still, I think you just really like pancakes."

"What's that look for?" Draco asks.

Blaise looks back at Draco and shakes his head, and returns to focus purely on his own breakfast.

A tawny owl swoops in and drops a red envelope almost on top of Ron's plate.

"RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY—" Mrs. Weasley's voice screams.

Gemma flicks her wand at the Howler and it flies into the air high above the table, where it bursts into a red firework. Across the room, the Weasley twins applaud and whistle.

"Thanks," Ron says quietly, looking otherwise like he wants to sink into his chair.

"At least the twins seem to be taking it all in good grace," I comment.

"They're barmy," Ron says.

"Our classes start today," Hermione says. "I'm still nervous. I read through all my textbooks three times, but I'm still not sure I'm prepared. You guys probably know a lot about magic already — except Harry, I guess."

"Relax, Granger," Blaise says in exasperation. "We're here to learn about magic. They don't expect us to know everything about it right away. Read your textbooks three times? You should have been in Ravenclaw, not here. Maybe if we go ask Dumbledore, it's not too late to re-Sort you and you can get to where you belong."

"Oh, give her a break, Zabini," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "That Hat wouldn't have put her here without good reason."

"I'm sure even an ancient magical item can still make mistakes," Blaise says. "Why don't you let her stick up for herself? Let's see what she has to say. Why are you here, Granger? Don't just run for a prefect or let someone else defend you. I want to hear you speak for yourself."

Hermione works her face up in a variety of expressions as if debating what to say or how to say it, before finally taking in a deep breath. "Because I chose to be. Because— Because— I don't just want to be a _tourist_ passing through to pick up some parlor tricks." She's stammering, fighting back tears. "Because I want to be a part of this world. Because I don't just want to _learn_ , but to _do_. And— And— Knowledge is power, isn't that right?"

Blaise chuckles. "I think you're trying too hard, but okay. We'll see. Welcome to Slytherin. And do something with those textbooks and not just eat them."

"I'm surprised you aren't questioning me, too," Ron says.

"Nah," Blaise says. "You're just a pureblood who is more sensible than the rest of his family."

"Damn," I say, looking at my empty plate. "I finished my pancakes. I want some more pancakes." Another stack of pancakes promptly appears on my plate. "Thanks!"

Hermione looks over to me, distracted from her debate. "You're going to get fat like that."

"Never been fat in my life," I say. "High magical energy burns through calories like nobody's business."

"You haven't used magic before," Hermione points out. "So how would you know that?"

She's right, I really shouldn't know that already. Better cover my ass. "Not like I haven't done accidental magic before," I say. "I've almost electrocuted people for startling or angering me without intending to."

"Remind me not to piss you off, mate," Ron says.

I chuckle. "Don't worry. I won't hurt a friend."

* * *

Potions class takes place in a dimly lit dungeon full of the lingering odor of noxious fumes. I cannot imagine that this could possibly be healthy.

"Well, it looks like we have our new celebrity," Snape says, looking pointedly at me. "And self-proclaimed future Dark Lord. Most people would at least wait until finishing school before declaring themselves a Dark Lord."

"What can I say?" I grin. "I like to get a head start on things."

"I would take points from Slytherin for your cheek, but I see no need to punish the rest of my House because of you."

"Would you have preferred that I had been Sorted into Gryffindor so that you could take points away from them, instead?" I ask. "If you'd like to, by all means, don't let me stop you. But I don't see much point in keeping score if you don't, if not play the game fairly, at least play the game at all."

Snape rolls his eyes. "For all you talk, let's see if you know what you're doing, 'Darth Revan'. What do you get if you add powdered asphodel root to an infusion of wormwood?"

"I have no idea." I hold up a finger. "I'll state right out that I'm pretty sure I'll be rubbish at Potions and it will take a minor miracle for me to not blow up your classroom. I could probably manage to burn water."

Snape sighs. "Have you at least studied your herbs? What's the difference between wolfsbane and monkshood?"

"I don't know, and if I don't know the answer, I'm not going to guess unless it's absolutely necessary."

Snape snorts softly. "Then tell me, where could you find a bezoar?"

An image flashes in my mind. _Draco lies before me, poisoned by a deadly curse. I frantically pull a bezoar out of my bag and shove it into his mouth._

"Stomach of a goat," I say distantly. "It'll cure most poisons." I pull out my quill and clumsily write, muttering, "Note to self: Obtain bezoars."

Snape looks at me strangely. I can feel a brush of the Force against my mind, but I let it slide. If he wants to know, then let him. I have nothing to hide and nothing to prove. After a long pause, he just goes into describing what we will be doing today, and then concludes with, "Mr. Malfoy, you will pair up with Mr. Potter and prevent the room from exploding."

* * *

Defense Against the Dark Arts is taught by a stuttering man in a purple turban. Even as I sigh about the prospect of listening to this all year, I get the nagging feeling that I should not trust him.

Curiously, I examine him more closely through the Force. There's the presence of Dark Side energies, to be sure, but there's a disruption around it that would be atypical of a mere Dark Side user like a Sith. I peer at him intently, trying to unravel the mystery, losing track of what's happening around me until jolted out of it.

"Mr. P-P-P-Potter," Quirrell says, standing in front of my desk.

"Huh?"

"I hear you've p-p-p-proclaimed yourself the next D-D-D-D-Dark Lord."

"Oh," I say. "Yeah. Pretty sure everyone knows that by now."

He's right in front of me, and I can feel it, I can practically _smell_ it. It's not just familiar. Not just an old friend or an old enemy. This is much, much stronger. No, I will not react visibly. There is no temptation. There is only choice. I put on a mask that people may only see what I want them to see. And yet I don't doubt that Quirrell has probably seen the look in my eyes.

"P-Potter," Quirrell says in almost a hiss. "C-C-Come see me after c-c-c-class."

Yeah, he knows something is up. Well, let's see what comes of it. I'm incredibly curious as to the source of this feeling. This half-remembered sensation. I find it difficult to believe that I would have spent more time around this stuttering fool than absolutely necessary. And yet, that's not all there is to it. Maybe it's all just an act. The Force seems strange around him in a way that I can't pinpoint. I must have answers, and maybe he will offer them, one way or another.

"Will do," I reply.

Professor Quirrell, whoever or whatever he really is, goes back to teaching the class as if nothing had happened.

"Doubt he's too threatening," Draco whispers to me. "Seems a bit soon for people to try to dispatch you for being a Dark Lord. They don't even really take that seriously."

"Do you?" I ask.

Draco pauses thoughtfully. "Yes."

"Why?"

"Much as you play it off as a joke, you are also absolutely serious about it," Draco says quietly.

"Would you two be quiet?" Hermione mutters. "I'm trying to listen here."

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" I say, glancing about his office with feigned casualness. I make note of the door in its relation to me, and that there is a window that I could use for an exit in a pinch. I mentally classify everything in the room according to its perceived danger and utility. Books. Masks. A telescope.

"Yes, p-p-p-please, have a seat," Quirrell says, gesturing to a chair.

I remain standing. "You don't have to fake that stutter here. We're alone."

"How did you know I was faking it?" Quirrell wonders.

I grin wryly. "I didn't."

Quirrell pauses in confusion, then smirks. "You're a clever one, aren't you. I can see why the Hat put you in Slytherin. And not just for declaring yourself the Dark Lord before even starting school."

Now that I'm alone with him and away from the immediate Force presences of others, I focus and try to figure out just what the disruption around him is. It seems like there's two signatures there, two presences and not just one, each with their own distinct feel. One is pale, weak, flickering. The other is dark and almost intoxicating. The dark one is attached to and feeding off from the pale one like a parasite. Unless I miss my guess, I'd say our Defense Professor is possessed.

"So," I ask, "which one am I speaking with at the moment?" Given the circumstances and what Dumbledore told me, I expect there's a good chance he's possessed by Voldemort.

"W-W-W-W-What!?" Quirrell sputters.

I probably shouldn't tip my hand so early.

"Voldemort?" I ask.

"I'm not falling for that again!"

I shrug. "Don't think I can't sense that."

Quirrell stares at me, meeting my eyes, and I feel the Force trying to get into my mind again. For the first time since I got back to this world, I'm uneasy.

"What is this?" Quirrell says, lifting his wand.

My heart pounds. I should not let him see this. I should not let him know. I should not—

" _Crucio!_ "

Blinding pain shoots through my body. I fall to the ground screaming. It's just pain, I tell myself. My blood sears red-hot in my veins. It's not like I haven't felt pain before. My nerves burn like lightning—

No. Lightning is _my_ element. In the rage of a storm, I call forth the Dark Side of the Force. How _dare_ he! I am Darth Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith! With an ear-splitting crack of thunder, the room explodes in lightning. The window shatters, books are blown against the wall, and masks crack.

I am in control, I tell myself. I am the eye of the storm. I rein the storm in. The torture spell ceased when Quirrell was thrown across the room.

"Do not cross me, or I will destroy you," I snarl.

"Y-Y-Y-You… You…"

I smirk dangerously. "Did you think me merely a child playing at being a Dark Lord?"

He climbs to his feet slowly and retrieves his wand.

"Submit to my superior strength and I will permit you to live and serve me," I demand.

"I will not," he says. "Will this be a duel, then?"

A duel of wands? No way can I beat him at that, and I don't have my lightsabers here. I make a mental note to find a way to reconstruct them.

"Fine," I say. "If I cannot defeat you, then I do not deserve the title."

I bring forth the power of the storm again, surrounding myself in a shell of lightning, and shield myself with a bubble of Force. I try to anticipate where he will cast next, but he has such a variety of spells that I can't keep track of them all. Dark Side tendrils, techniques that cut with pure Force, and he finally hits me with poisonous quills.

I lay on the floor, my mind spinning and poison burning in my veins. "You win," I rasp.

"Now," he says, standing over me. "Will you submit to _me_?"

I shake my head weakly. "Nope. I'd rather die."

"So be it." He raises his wand toward me again. "Then I shall grant you the mercy of a swift death."

I murmur, "Thank you."

* * *

I wake in the Slytherin dormitories sighing in relief. It's probably just as well the loop ended there. As unpleasant as being tortured and dying in combat is, it's probably preferable to the consequences of tipping my hand like that. I was not being clever or subtle at all. If anything, I was probably being reckless in an attempt to gather information, expecting that I would die. Stupid, foolish, Gryffindorish.

Should I tell Dumbledore about this? No, I get the nagging feeling that either he already knows, or that mentioning it to him will accomplish precisely nothing. Maybe it's best not to tip my hand to Dumbledore either, and not let him realize that I'm aware of Voldemort's presence in the school.

As I go through the morning routine again and prepare for a redo of this year's first class with Professor Quirrell, I steady myself. I am in control. I won't tip my hand this time. He will not find out anything I don't let him.

"Harry?" Draco says to me as we're about to head down for breakfast. "You look fierce. You okay?"

I shake my head and take a deep breath. I won't take out my rage on my friend. "I just don't look forward to spending all year with a stuttering fool," I lie. "Have you heard him speak?"

"Ugh." Draco makes a face. "You have got to be kidding me."

"I only wish," I say. "I have to wonder if he can even say a spell straight."

After breakfast, we head off to Defense Against the Dark Arts. Quirrell begins his previous stuttering introduction. Focus. I am the eye of the storm. I will remain calm. I don't meet his eyes.

"P-P-P-Potter," Quirrell says, standing in front of my desk. "I understand you've d-d-d-d-declared yourself the next D-D-D-D-Dark Lord."

"Yeah," I reply, eyes firmly fixed on my notes. ' _Obtain bezoars'_ written at the top of the page.

"W-W-W-Why?"

I shrug. "Because I am. It's kind of nice to be honest about it."

"You d-d-d-don't even know and m-m-m-m-magic yet."

"I'll learn." I scratch out with my quill the words ' _Learn to duel_ '. Maybe I should write some secret journal in some language that doesn't exist in this universe. Just in case. I don't seem to forget languages even if I forget everything else.

"W-W-W-What if someone, l-l-like me, c-c-c-comes after you b-b-b-because of that?"

"Then I will die," I say, pulling out my Defense textbook. "Is that all, Professor? I would like to spend some time studying. Perhaps I can stave off the Aurors coming to arrest me, for some crimes I have yet to commit, by giving them a deadly nosebleed."

As a flustered Quirrell goes back to teaching the class ineptly, I have to wonder, did I hear about Aurors in this lifetime? I don't really think I did. These little details keep bubbling to the surface. This is good. Hopefully I can remember more, but it keeps coming back as memories, just of things I'm not sure that I should have heard of here yet. My hunch on remembering things just by being exposed to this world again seems to be panning out. And, more importantly… I've quickly realized how degraded my knowledge of the Force has become.

* * *

The Slytherins and Gryffindors stand out on the grounds, each of us with a broomstick at our feet. I'm not looking forward to flying lessons, not after blowing up a swoop bike that one time. Glancing aside to my friends shows Hermione equally nervous, while Draco and Ron are grinning at one another.

"Getting on sticks and flying into the air," I mutter. "What could possibly go wrong? Was this the most sensible form of magical transportation anyone could think of?"

"Broomsticks were originally invented to be able to be easily concealed within a witch's house as a mundane cleaning implement," Hermione says.

I shake my head. "You could do that with anything. Like a carpet, for instance."

"Flying carpets are illegal," Ron says.

I sigh. "Of course they would be." I roll my eyes. "But my point is, why a broomstick? Of all the possible implements they could have used, cleaning or otherwise. What advantage do brooms have?"

"They're fast," Ron says.

"They're maneuverable," Draco adds.

I tap my chin thoughtfully. "That's it! Broomsticks were obviously originally built for warfare, for making quick aerial strikes."

"Students, your attention please!" calls out the instructor. "Stand by your brooms. When you're in position, hold out your hand and say 'Up!'"

I sigh and go over to my broom, and say, "Up!" The broom flops. I roll my eyes and say more firmly, "Up!" The broom flops the other way. Somehow, I expected this would be the case.

Beside me, Draco and Ron already have their brooms in their hands. After several more tries, I get my broom to cooperate, and most of the class has theirs as well. And over with the Gryffindors, Neville Longbottom has a hold of his broom shakily floating up into the air out of control.

In my mind's eye, a memory flashes. _Neville falls off his broom, screaming in terror. A sickening crash into the ground, bones snapping, being rushed to the hospital wing._

Not stopping to think, my wand is in my hand in an instant.

Neville slips from his broom. Neville is falling.

I point to the ground beneath him and shout, " _Spongify!_ "

Neville bounces off the ground like hitting a mattress.

I don't know that spell. I couldn't cast it again if I tried. I don't remember the wand movements or even the incantation even though I just said it.

"Five points to Slytherin for your quick thinking, Mr. Potter," Madame Hooch says.

Surprised and relieved, Neville looks over to me and says quietly, "Thanks."

Draco picks up a shiny glass ball from the ground and hands it over to Neville. "Here, you dropped this."

"Oh, my Remembrall!" Neville says, pocketing it, then looks at us suspiciously. "Why are you two being so nice?"

"What, would you rather I be a bully teasing you for being forgetful, clumsy, inept, magically weak, or fat?" Draco says with a wry grin, then shakes his head. "You're not any of that, Neville, and don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise."

Positively gobsmacked, Neville gapes at him. "You really think so?"

"You might not manage something the first time," I say. "We all might. But the only way you really fail is if you don't get back on the broomstick every time you fall off. Never give up, and you can achieve anything you put your mind to."

Hermione nods and pulls out her wand. "Go ahead. Try again. I've got your back this time."

As I watch Neville get back on the broom to try again, I glance aside at Draco. I hadn't expected him to take my words to heart so much. Honestly, I find it hard to believe that I've seen this in _any_ lifetime.

Draco whispers to me, "Do you think I did that right?"

I nod. "That was beautiful. You'd be surprised how far something like that can go. And you don't even have to go out of your way to do it, either."

"It's a lot harder than you'd think," Draco mutters. "Not like I ever learned this sort of thing growing up."

Ron puts in, "Not being an arse isn't that hard."

Draco rolls his eyes and says lightly, "Shut up, Ron."


	4. Autumn

_Dear Mr. Lovegood,_

_I regret to inform you that I decided to sell my pet monkeys to an animal reserve. It would not do to carry them around on a spaceship. They deserved better than that. I hope they are well in their new home._

_Regards, Harry Potter._

* * *

I wake up late on Sunday morning, and overhear the boys talking. Continuing to pretend to be asleep, I listen in to what they're saying.

"What are we doing for the Equinox?" Blaise asks.

"Minimal rites," Draco says. "Nothing elaborate."

"You think we can sneak out for that?" Blaise wonders. "We certainly can't do it around—"

"I'll be showing them the rites," Draco interrupts.

"Wait, really?" Blaise says in surprise. "I was wondering why you mentioned Yule around them and didn't brush it off as Christmas."

"If you want to be friends with blood traitors and Mudbloods, that's your own business," Theodore says. "But leave me out of it."

I mumble through my pillow, "I'm still here, you know." I open the bed curtains and poke my head out.

"Eavesdropping?" Draco says with a grin.

"Nah, just you guys pretending I'm not in the room." I wink.

"Is this the part where we awkwardly go quiet and pretend we weren't talking?" Draco says.

I wave my hand. "No, no, by all means, carry on. Did I fall under 'blood traitor' or 'Mudblood', by the way?"

"I didn't mean—" Theodore starts.

"Nature or nurture?" I muse. "Is it more important who someone is, or what they've experienced? And is it necessarily apparent to others who they are? What can change the nature of a man? Surely people can learn from what they've experienced regardless of where they've started off."

What has kept me myself despite having forgotten everything that I was? Could Obliviating someone change their personality? Or do they have ingrained thought patterns that underlie their memories and experiences? I'd like to think that I've always been me, and have merely lost some skills and lessons learned. But how can I tell? I have no way of knowing, without a comparison to what I was like before, in each other lifetime, or even my original lifetime, before I began forgetting things.

"I wouldn't expect a self-proclaimed Dark Lord to be asking philosophical questions like that," Blaise says.

"Expect nothing," I say. "Question everything."

"Definitely weird," Theodore says. "Do whatever. Just leave me out of it."

Blaise turns to Draco. "Did you really convince them to join in with our traditions and not keep dragging their Muggle customs into our society?"

"I don't know about anyone else, but I certainly don't have strong feelings toward any Muggle customs," I say.

"How about the ones where they wanted to kill all of us?" Theodore asks.

I put my face in my hand. "Honestly, all of history seems to be about one group trying to kill another group. I don't know if it's inevitable. But I'd like to think it can be avoided. That doesn't mean we need to deny who we are. And that certainly doesn't mean that someone should try to change or reject traditions without even seeing what they are. Nothing is gained from ignorance."

"It's not just learning about someone else's culture," Theodore snaps. "It's magic, too. Ritual magic isn't taught at Hogwarts anymore. It's only preserved through the old families. You perform the right ritual on the right day in the year, and you can accomplish far more than just waving a wand and saying some words could do."

Half-remembered rituals flicker through my head, lines of runes and setup of objects tantalizing me just out of reach. I've participated in a few rituals, at least.

"I'm not exactly going to start off with that," Draco says with a snort. "How stupid do you think I am?"

I say, "I hereby preemptively object to being sacrificed at the hour of midnight on Samhain to resurrect Voldemort."

The others give me a strange look. "You said the Dark Lord's name?"

"No, I'm the Dark Lord now," I say. "Besides, what's the point in giving yourself a cool pseudonym if you're just going to demand people not call you by it? I mean, I'd understand if his real name were Tom or something and he didn't want to be called that."

"The, uh, former Dark Lord," Blaise says.

"Right, no sacrificing you," Draco drawls. "Noted. Glad we've cleared that up."

Blaise smirks. "Is that just sacrificing you, or human sacrifice in general?"

I muse, "While I am certain that there are extreme circumstances under which human sacrifice might be an acceptable measure—"

Ron enters the dorm. "I go outside for five minutes and we're already talking about human sacrifice?"

"Hi Ron," Draco says with forced cheer.

Theodore sighs. "As I was trying to say. It's one thing to try to teach the rites to Weasley or Potter — they're still members of old houses, even if their current paterfamilias doesn't practice the traditions any longer. But Granger is the first of her line, to put it charitably. Normally, the paterfamilias would make sure rituals are only taught when the children are ready to learn them, at their discretion. They have no such oversight."

"Oh for crying out loud, Nott, I was just going to show them the rites that are taught to every child," Draco says. "The Rite of First Fruits, on the Equinox, for one."

"It seems harmless enough to you, but where does it end?" Theodore says.

"Technically, as the last surviving member of House Potter," I put in, "would it not behoove me to know what to pass along to _my_ descendents?"

Draco says, "Some rites are known to all or most noble houses, but some are kept within a single house or bloodline. Unfortunately that means whatever rites the Weasleys and Potters may have once known are now lost. So unless you're planning to go back in time and learn them from those who knew them before, that means you'll basically have to start over."

"Noted," I say. "If I ever go back in time, I will attempt to learn them."

Blaise looks at me. "You know, I'm never sure whether you're joking or not."

"As for whatever else might be taught beyond the basics, I'll ask my father about it," Draco says. "Yes, even for Hermione."

"I'm sure she'd appreciate being present for that discussion, too," I say lightly.

Ron says, "Wait, are we talking about magic or religion?"

The three other purebloods look at him like he's stupid.

"They aren't really different, at a point," Draco says. "Especially when you get into ritual magic."

Ron frowns. "So the difference is that our religion has magic has that works, and that Muggle religion has baseless claims of miracles?"

"That's… not strictly true, but let's not get into that right now," Blaise says.

"Yeah, keep that Pandora's box closed for the moment," Draco says, wincing.

"Okay, now you guys got me curious," I say.

"Sorry, you're just going to have to wait on that," Draco says.

"Fiiiine." I pout.

"Dark Lords should not pout," Blaise says with a wry grin.

* * *

_Dear Stormseeker,_

_I'm sorry to hear about your monkeys, but it's probably for the best. Are you going to battle the Rotfang Conspiracy and wipe out the wrackspurts?_

_Sincerely, Luna Lovegood_

__

My pancakes forgotten for the moment, I stare down at the letter that had arrived during breakfast with befuddlement. On the one hand, I have no idea what she's talking about. On the other, she knows my title and far too much about me to be coincidental. Was this some sort of secret code we had set up at some point? Something about it seems like it should be familiar, but as has been maddeningly common, I can't put my finger on it.

"Harry, you got a letter?" Ron asks, peering over at me.

"It's rude to read other people's mail without permission," I say lightly, then toss it over to him. "You have permission to feel free to try to figure out what she's on about."

Ron's eyes scan over the brief missive. "Oh, it's from that Lovegood girl. She's completely mental. Don't expect anything she says to make sense."

"What's this?" Draco says with a grin. "Harry's getting love letters? Already?"

"Yep," I reply, pouring more syrup over my pancakes. "I'm totally going to marry this weird girl I've never met."

"I'm sure she'd be a perfect match for you, then," Theodore puts in.

* * *

It's fair enough for the pureblood humans being concerned about Muggle-raised humans diluting their culture, especially given what I've seen of how they have to hide it now. If it were a case of, say, a Twi'lek having been raised by humans going back to the other Twi'leks with their heads full of human customs and values, they'd probably get a disdainful reaction too. The fact that Muggles look so much like humans doesn't help matters much, either. Or maybe they actually are humans and just have a mutation that cuts them off from the Force. That would be a very sad thing, really, and all the more so how such a flawed gene could survive, never mind propagate to being the dominant phenotype on the planet.

At the Equinox, Draco instructs us to save a bit of our dinner and bring it to the dorm, where we gather it up and Draco lights it on fire. Are there no fire security measures here? Either there is not, or they realize that this fire is contained.

"You decided to join us after all, Theo," Ron says.

Theodore smirks. "I was hardly going to forego the rite or sneak off to do it by myself just because you lot are weird. Besides, I'm curious to see what you get up to, so I can watch and know when to bring out the popcorn."

"Well, whatever the reason, I, for one, am glad you are here," Hermione says.

Theodore grouses a little, then nods curtly to her.

"So you said these rites were magical, right?" Ron asks. "What does this one do?"

Blaise grins, and Theodore gives Ron a longsuffering look.

Draco rolls his eyes. "What, you can't expect him to just know." He turns to Ron. "We are giving part of the first harvest back to nature as thanks. It's a minor blessing upon the home and land, and on the people who join in the ritual and their families."

"Even mine?" Hermione asks hesitantly.

"I don't know," Draco says. "Maybe."

* * *

Halloween arrives with an inexplicable feeling of dread. I hadn't been able to pay attention to the Slytherins' talk of Samhain rites. There had been talk about honoring the dead. Who would I honor? Everyone has died, in some timeline or another. I have watched more people die than I would care to remember. And yet I have saved everyone from a terrible fate, a future they would have never known was coming, that they need never know was coming. People can sleep soundly at night without knowing that once, they would have had their magic and freedom taken away and been doomed to die.

And so, to that end, I think that during Samhain I will honor the thousand whose regrets I called upon, who gave their lives and very souls to break the chains of that dark future and give hope to the multiverse.

And yet, as October 31st dawns, my mind is clouded with a thousand conflicting memories, and to make matters worse, the Force permeates the air, heavily steeped in the Dark Side. It's almost intoxicating.

"You alright there, mate?" Ron asks me at breakfast.

I look sideways at him. "Can't you feel it?"

Ron looks bewildered. "Feel what?"

I roll my eyes and sigh. How can one call themselves a wizard and be so totally unaware of the Force around them? No, it would not do to snap at him. He's just a Padawan, an apprentice, and he really doesn't know. He's here to learn. And yet, everyone within earshot is looking over at me curiously.

"Magic is all around us," I say smoothly. "Between you and me, between the walls of this castle, between the trees of the forest, between the earth and the sky, between this world and the next. It surrounds us and permeates us. It is a part of us, and we are a part of it."

Breakfast forgotten, I have the table's undivided attention now, and a couple of the purebloods are nodding.

"Close your eyes," I go on. "Don't trust just what you see. Reach out with your senses."

"Wha—?" Ron says, then sighs and nods, and closes his eyes. Beside him, Hermione does the same.

"Feel the magic," I say quietly. That doesn't really sound as good as 'feel the Force'. It's difficult to couch things in terms of this world sometimes. "Feel magic," I reiterate. That probably works better.

A small smile is beginning to spread over Hermione's face.

"I'm trying, but I can't feel anything…" Ron murmurs.

"No," I say. "Do, or do not. There is no try. If you believe you cannot, then that is why you fail."

Ron sighs, and nods, and concentrates intently, then shakes his head.

"You give up too easily," I say. "Relax. Don't worry about breakfast, or class, or anything else. Put these things out of your mind. Be one with magic."

Letting out a heavy breath, Ron visibly relaxes, and for a moment there almost looks as though he's about to take a nap right at the table. Then, after several long moments, his eyes snap open and he gasps. "Wicked."

We finish up with breakfast and head out of the Great Hall.

"Having a good grasp of magic must be important for a Dark Lord," Blaise says lightly.

"How do you know all that?" Draco whispers to me in the corridor as we head to class. "Didn't you say you were raised by Muggles?"

Now there's the million credit question. But honestly, there's only so far that I can pretend to be ignoring of the flow of the Force in general, and not just the specific spellcasting that we'll be learning.

I shrug. "I don't know. I could always sense it, for so long as I could remember. I thought it was normal at first. I was kind of surprised today to find that not even every wizard had figured it out or had learned to."

"Yeah," Draco agrees. "His family must be really lax in teaching their children what they need to know. No great shock, given their churlish ways, but no great surprise that they're all complete duffers." He pauses, then corrects himself, "All but one of them are complete duffers. That one's just mostly a duffer." He grins.

* * *

"Swish and flick! Swish and flick!" Professor Flitwick instructs, demonstrating with his wand and causing several feathers to levitate on the desk in front of him. "Ah! Miss Granger has her feather floating already there, see? Five points to Slytherin!"

"Can't quite feel the magic," Ron mutters glumly, poking at his own feather with his wand.

This seems like an awfully roundabout way to get to telekinesis. And yet, there's probably some advantage to it, and anyway, this isn't a lesson designed for someone who can already use the Force to levitate things, but to teach people how to use the Force to levitate things. For that matter, practice at my own Force powers can't hurt, either, even though I know quite well that, as much as I've forgotten, I'm still perfectly capable of lifting a _feather_.

I swish and flick my wand. _"Wingardium Leviosa!"_ Graceful as a spire falcon, the feather takes off from the desk and flies straight out the window. "Um…" I go over to the window to watch it fluttering off in the gentle breeze, perhaps looking for a mate to make a nest with somewhere. "I think I'm going to need another feather."

Professor Flitwick comes over and places another feather upon my desk.

"Pansy," Hermione says quietly, leaning over. "Did you know your makeup is smudged?"

"What, is it?" Pansy says, half-panicked. Millicent Bulstrode nods in agreement. "Oh, Merlin! I have to go fix this right away." She rushes out of the classroom.

"Why is she wearing makeup?" Ron whispers. "She's eleven!"

"Why is she wearing makeup?" Draco repeats. "She's a pureblood!"

"Maybe she's trying to dress up like a fake witch for Halloween," Blaise says in a mocking tone.

Millicent rolls her eyes and mutters, "Boys!"

* * *

I can't quite shake the nagging feeling that something bad is going to happen today, and it's not just the Dark Side in the air. Memories still linger, but there's too many _different_ bad things that have happened on previous Halloweens that I can't quite pinpoint any specific one. It should probably come as no surprise at how many terrible things have happened on Halloween, given the strength of the Dark Side on this day.

To that end, I decide that it's prudent to take a nap after classes, before heading down to the Halloween Feast.

"Has anyone seen Pansy?" I wonder as I sit down to eat, not seeing her at the table.

"She's still in the restroom fixing her makeup," Millicent says.

"Why, do you have a crush on her, now?" Blaise asks, grinning. "Are Luna Lovegood and Pansy Parkinson both vying for the heart of the most eligible Dark Lord, Harry Potter?"

I snort softly and don't deign to respond, and instead help myself to a big slice of pumpkin pie.

"You really should save your dessert for last," Hermione scolds me.

"Don'f gare," I mutter around a mouthful of pie.

Hermione sighs and rolls her eyes. "Boys. Honestly."

"I know, right?" Millicent says.

"Troll!" exclaims Professor Quirrell, running into the Great Hall and flailing his arms. "There's a troll in the dungeons!"

Well. That would certainly qualify as potentially dangerous. As the prefects are leading us back to our common rooms, I get the horrible flash of memory of the troll killing someone, and with a sinking feeling I realize Pansy is still in the loo. I slip away from the rest of the students and hurry off to find her.

The bloodcurdling roar of a large, bestial alien reverberates from the girls' restroom, followed by the terrified shriek of a young girl. Wand in hand and heart pounding in my ears, I approach. Who am I fooling? I don't know any spells that could combat this green mass of muscle. I'll need to rely on raw Force powers.

Raising my hands, I shoot Force Lightning toward the troll, to little effect. Like a terentatek, the electricity only angers it without really harming it. Shit, why are they always Force resistant? I dearly wish I had a lightsaber. I could probably make quick work of this thing.

The troll swats me aside with a massive hand, and with a sickening crunch I hit the far wall. Pansy looks out from a stall, eyes wide with fear.

"Pansy," I croak, my eyes meeting hers. " _Run!_ "

She doesn't need to be told twice. As Pansy makes a break for the door, I roll out of the way of the troll's next swipe, much as it hurts to move. If death is a foregone conclusion here, I can at least give Pansy time to get away. And who knows, maybe I can still pull a victory out of this? Unlikely as it seems.

I throw myself out of the way of the troll's club, bathroom tiles shattering behind me. Direct Force powers might not work very well, but what about indirect attacks? Hurling the furniture at your opponent is an old Sith ploy. The toilets and sinks are too firmly affixed to the floor and walls, though. What else—

 _Crunch_. As I'm musing, the troll strikes me again, and again to finish me off.

* * *

And that would be why I felt like it would be a good idea to take a nap. I'll just have to head up and find Pansy before a troll can put us both through a wall.

Not bothering to stop by the Great Hall first, I go straight for the girls' loo where I'd found Pansy before and knock on the door.

"Who is it?" Pansy's voice demands from inside.

"Harry," I call in. "Are you coming? You're going to miss the feast."

"I can't possibly be seen down there like this!" Pansy exclaims.

I sigh and put my face in my palm. "Just wash it off. I don't see what the big deal is."

"Boys!" cries Pansy in exasperation.

"Seriously, though, come on, there's—"

The sound of slow, heavy footsteps rumbles down the hallway.

"Shit," I utter. "Something is coming."

"A professor?" Pansy asks.

"No," I say. "Not unless Hagrid has put on a lot of weight overnight! Come on, let's get out of here!"

"Hagrid's not even a—"

An earsplitting roar interrupts her pedantry as the troll rounds a corner and spots me.

"Shit!" I exclaim. "Come out! It's a troll!"

Pansy finally pokes her head out and looks down the hallway, eyes widening at the sight. "Shit!" she repeats, then turns off running in the opposite direction. I take my cue to run after her. "Sorry, that's not very ladylike language."

"Under the circumstances, I'd give it a pass!"

Pansy pulls out her wand and casts over her shoulder, " _Diffindo!_ "

"Nothing. It's resistant to magic!" I say.

"I'm certainly not going to go over there and punch it in the nose," Pansy replies.

"You have any better ideas?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder. We're giving the troll a merry chase down the hall. The bulky alien is deceptively fast.

"Anything would be better than that," Pansy says. "We're not exactly giants!"

As we run, I scan the corridors for something to throw at the troll. The frightened, living paintings are probably firmly affixed to the wall, and anyways wouldn't help much. Where's a suit of armor when you need one? There! A tapestry!

" _Wingardium Leviosa!_ " I cast at the tapestry. Its end lifts into the air, but the top is firmly attached.

" _Diffindo!"_ Pansy adds, cutting it loose.

The tapestry floats through the air and covers the troll's head. In confusion, it blindly tears at its face, trying to get the obstruction loose, meanwhile giving us a little breathing room.

We make it to the Great Hall. The place has been evacuated and there's no one in sight. There is, however, plenty to throw at the troll. I start levitating plates and flinging them at the creature, one pie splatting against its face. It pauses, a large tongue snaking out to lick itself.

It's not enough. What's the biggest thing I can lift? I look over to the Headmaster's chair at the front of the room, point my wand and cast, " _Wingardium Leviosa!_ " The cumbersome chair wobbles and moves unsteadily off the floor.

Pansy sees what I'm doing and points her own wand at it. " _Wingardium Leviosa!_ "

Between the two of us, we heave the heavy piece of furniture across the room, slamming into the troll full force. It collapses under the weight.

After a long, tense moment, Pansy says uncertainly, "Is it… Is it dead?"

"I don't know," I say, slumping against the Hufflepuff table, panting. "And I don't really care to go over there and look just now. We can throw another chair at it if it moves again."

Pansy brushes a bit of treacle tart off of herself before sighing and giving up on the food-smeared robes as hopeless. "Did you mean what you said earlier, or were you just impatient to get me moving?"

"About what?" I wonder.

"I was trying to look pretty," Pansy mutters, staring at the floor. "One of the Gryffindor boys even said I looked like a pig."

I snort softly. "And you listened?" I shake my head. "Slathering stuff on your face doesn't make you pretty. And not everyone has the same idea of pretty, anyway. I mean, if you could transfigure yourself into the most beautiful being you could imagine, plenty of people would still think that wasn't actually beautiful, just because it was one person's idea of beauty."

"What do you mean?" Pansy asks.

"I mean," I say, chuckling, and pointing to the troll. "That some lady troll out there would find that guy handsome." I pause. "Unless that _is_ a lady troll."

"Well, I'm not a troll," Pansy huffs. "Do _you_ think I'm pretty, Potter?"

I grin widely. "Sure, but it doesn't mean anything. Any empty-headed idiot can look like a love goddess. Knocking out a troll with a chair? Now _that_ is hot."

Pansy is looking very thoughtful as the professors stumble into the room, far too late to help us against the troll.

Professor Snape pins us with a hard gaze. "Mr. Potter. Miss Parkinson. What are you doing here? Students were supposed to be taken to their dorms."

"We didn't hear anything of it," Pansy says. "I was in the restroom fixing my makeup when Harry came to get me for the feast." I'm Harry now, am I?

I nod in agreement. "I about had a heart attack when I saw _that_ thing coming down the corridor toward us. We ran away. It chased us. We threw whatever we had at it."

"I must say, my dear boy," Dumbledore says. "I have never seen my chair used as a deadly weapon before."

* * *

"Harry and Pansy are totally in looooove," Blaise chirps.

I roll my eyes. "Don't you have anything better to do? Like, say, two feet about the goblin uprising of whenever?"

Now that I'm not fighting for my life, I have time to think back on what had happened. Quirrell, being possessed and not at all the simpering, useless coward that he seems, is the most obvious suspect, of course. Someone could have been killed here, but I don't think such random slaughter was the intent, and I seriously doubt that Voldemort would care enough about Pansy Parkinson to go to such a convoluted means of murdering her.

Across the common room, Pansy is looking more thoughtful than I've ever seen her. She finally decides to come over to sit with my group.

Draco nods curtly to her. "How in Merlin's name did you two wind up together when you ran across that troll?"

"I told you, I went to remind her that there was a feast going on."

"You're a bit young to be snogging in the cupboards," Ron says, looking at me suspiciously.

Pansy rolls her eyes. "Really now."

"More importantly," Hermione butts in, "Why was there a troll wandering around the castle in the first place?"

"Was it supposed to be for Defense class and somehow got loose?" I wonder.

"No way," Draco says. "Quirrell seemed as surprised as anyone else that there was a troll in the castle at all. He said 'there's a troll in the dungeons', not 'the troll has gotten loose'."

"Are Hogwarts' defenses really so shoddy that a troll could have wandered in here accidentally?" I add.

"Not a chance," Hermione says. " _Hogwarts: A History_ describes the castle's wards as among the best in the world."

"How many times did you read through that book again?" Pansy mutters.

"For once I'm glad she did," Ron says.

"Why would someone bring a troll into the castle?" Blaise wonders.

"It would have to have been one of the staff members," Hermione says.

"Who would do that?" Draco asks.

"And why?" I add.


	5. Heart's Desire

Since it seems unlikely that he brought a troll into the castle to kill or destroy, I reason that it must have been to cause chaos. Is Voldemort really the sort of person to cause chaos just for the sake of it?

The most important thing to dealing with quite a lot of people is to figure out what they want. Voldemort is dead and possessing my teacher. Unless I miss my guess, he would want to find a way to restore himself and come back to life. Merely causing chaos for the sake of it would not accomplish that.

So, a distraction? Dealing with the troll occupied the attention of the other professors. That means it likely that something that could bring Voldemort back to life is somewhere within this castle.

"The third floor corridor," Hermione says, snapping me out of my musing.

"Wha—?" Was I thinking aloud?

"At the start of term feast, Dumbledore said the third floor corridor on the right hand side was off-limits on pain of death," Hermione says. "Weren't you paying attention?"

"Oh," I say. "No, not really."

"Honestly, Harry," Hermione says with a sigh.

"The third floor corridor?" Ron glances up from the chessboard. "What about it?"

"You think someone spilled something in a magical accident there?" Blaise teases. "Or that they're just doing renovations?"

"Maybe there was a troll living there," Pansy says dryly.

Draco moves a chess piece. "So what _was_ that warning about then, I wonder?"

"You'd think, if it were at all interesting, one of the Gryffindors would have taken a look already and everyone would know," I say.

And yet, I have this nagging feeling in the back of my mind, that I don't even need to wonder. Whatever Voldemort is looking for is in there.

That night, I sneak out of the dorm in hopes of scratching that itch in the back of my mind and figure out what's going on here. I arrive at the door to the third floor corridor and try the doorknob. It's locked. Well, this was incredibly stupid. I am Darth Revan, Dark Lord of the Sith! I will not be stopped by a locked door. If this were an electronic lock, I could slice my way inside in seconds.

There's probably an unlocking spell in one of my spellbooks somewhere. I don't need to get in here tonight. Grumbling a little, I head back to my dorm.

* * *

" _Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1_ , chapter 5," Hermione says absently, not looking up from her homework. "What are you trying to unlock?"

"Third floor corridor," I reply casually. "Why did you tell me before asking what I was doing?"

"You'll get in trouble if you get caught," Hermione warns.

"So don't get caught," Draco adds.

I head out again that night, but as I'm leaving the dorm, Ron climbs out of bed and follows me out to the common room.

"I'm coming with you," Ron says.

"Well, it's your funeral if we get killed on pain of death," I say lightly, 

"I'm right behind you."

When we arrive at the locked door, I point my wand at it and say, " _Alohomora._ " With a click, the door opens.

"What's in there?" Ron says, peering around my shoulder. "I hear something…"

"Snarling three-headed dog on top of a trapdoor," I reply, quickly closing the door.

"It's guarding something…" Ron says.

I nod. "Let's get back to the Slytherin dorms. Unless you want to try wrestling it." I smirk.

"I'm not feeling Gryffindorish enough to wrestle a three-headed dog," Ron replies.

As we're heading back to the dungeons, I hear someone else moving about, and hold up a hand in warning to Ron.

"What's that, Mrs. Norris?" says the voice of Mr. Filch, the caretaker. "Do you smell students out of their beds?"

A meow is his answer.

"He'll catch us," Ron whispers. "We'll get detention and lose a lot of points. We have to hide!"

We duck into an empty classroom and quietly close the door behind us, and listen to Filch and his cat moving around outside, still looking for us.

"Hey, what's this?" Ron says, pointing toward a large, free-standing mirror.

"This unused classroom must be being used for storage, I guess."

Ron goes over to take a look in the mirror. "Whoa. I see my reflection, but I'm older. I'm Quidditch captain! And Head Boy!"

"Ambitious?" I say with a crooked grin. "I knew I had you pinned for a Slytherin."

"Do you think this mirror shows the future?"

I shake my head. "A future, maybe, but the future isn't set in stone. Anything could happen."

Ron's face falls. "So you don't think I'll be Head Boy?"

"I think you certainly could be," I assure him. "But it won't just fall in your lap. You have to earn it."

"I guess so," Ron says. "I'll certainly try."

I shake my head. "No." I put my hand on his shoulder. "Do, or do not—"

"—there is no try. Right." He looks over his shoulder at me. "So what do you see in the mirror?" He stands aside to let me get a good look.

"I see…" I begin, but trail off as I get a good look at my reflection. I'm older, taller, dressed in Jedi robes, green eyes looking calmly back at me. But it isn't just me. There are five people in the mirror. Standing around me are two other men, a woman, and a short alien with large, floppy ears. My breath catches in my throat. The woman smiles warmly at me, the little alien crosses his arms and looks stern, one of the men winks at me and gives a wry grin. And the other man looks at me expectantly, plaintively, and holds up a book. I step closer to the glass, but I can't quite make it out.

"What is it, Harry?" Ron asks.

I know these people. I _know_ these people. _I know these people_. Tears sting my eyes as I realize that I don't remember their names. But I must find them. My heart aches for them. My soul aches for them. They are a part of me.

"What's wrong, Harry?" Ron asks again. "What do you see?"

"My wife," I whisper.

"Your future wife?" Ron wonders.

"I think so, anyway," I reply. "And some friends, and our house-elf. Maybe that young man is our son? Maybe they're both our sons." I pause. "Adopted, maybe. Or, hell, maybe the blond boy is my son's husband, for all I know." In the mirror, said blond boy is looking highly amused.

"Do you see me there?" Ron asks.

"No, but I don't think that means much," I say. "I'm probably not going to marry you."

Ron sputters incoherently.

"Let's head back and get some sleep," I say, fully intending to come back tomorrow night without Ron.

"Can I just look for a little while longer?" Ron asks, trying to get another look into the mirror.

I smirk. "You're not going to become Head Boy by just looking."

Ron sighs. "Alright, alright, let's go."

* * *

I've brought over a chair and desk in front of the magic mirror, and am sketching the best pictures I can manage of the people I see in its reflection. Maybe if I can make clear enough sketches, someone will be able to recognize them and point me in the right direction.

It's not my future, that much I know. It's my past. They're people I knew before. Before I forgot everything. Before I forgot my friends. Before I forgot myself. And I _must_ find them. I wasn't quite truthful to Ron. This mirror doesn't precisely show a future, or even a possible future. This mirror shows your heart's desire. Certainly, that future is _possible_ , if not in this timeline or this universe, but _somewhere_ , but that isn't what it's looking for. That isn't what it's showing.

"Back again, Harry?" says Dumbledore's voice from the empty air. He cancels his Disillusionment Charm and steps up beside me. "Are you… drawing what you see in the mirror?"

"Good evening, Headmaster," I say flatly. "And yes, I am. What will my detention be this week? And would kindly you let me finish my drawing before sending me back to my dorm?"

"Oh, there's no need for that," Dumbledore says, waving a hand. "Now what's this you're drawing? Who are these people?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't need to draw them," I say. "You're being awfully nosy about my heart's desire, but you're forgiven." I chuckle softly. "I'd imagine that you've had some concerns about me, unfounded as they might be." I shake my head. "No, these were friends, who, in another life, in another time, were dear friends to me, and I miss them terribly. I just wish I knew who they were or where I could find them. Maybe you could help me. Maybe you would recognize them. You've been around for a while and you've encountered many of them people in and around Hogwarts, I'd imagine."

"Quite so," Dumbledore says. He pulls up a chair and takes a seat next to me. "Let's take a look, then." He points to the small alien. "A very strangely dressed house-elf? I'd bet that one would certainly stand out. Now, this woman and these two young men…" He looks very thoughtful. "It's difficult to speculate which of your classmates might grow up to be these people, given that they bear no resemblance to your current circle of friends."

I look at the sketches again and shake my head. "No, they aren't my current classmates. I can say that for certain. I would have recognized them for certain. No, these are people I have not yet encountered in this lifetime. I don't really know when I might have met them or under what circumstances."

"Did you ever go back in time to a period before you were born?" Dumbledore asks thoughtfully.

"I don't know," I say. "It's entirely possible." I pause, and think about how I'd wound up thousands of years before I was born somehow, in the _Star Wars_ universe. "More than possible."

Dumbledore points toward the woman. "This young witch here has the features of a Black, I would say. I cannot tell you which one." He indicates the men. "But these two, I believe I may have met them before. Do you remember anything about them that might identify them? Their attitudes, personality? Any impressions?"

I smile a bit, and point to the dark-haired man. "This one, he was always looking out for me. He would have done anything for me, I think, even if it meant moving mountains or tearing the stars from the skies. He was… very intense. Determined. Clever. Ruthless, in some ways." I chuckle, and look off into the distance with a fond look on my face. "I remember I kept visiting this dingy pub in Knockturn Alley, whenever I was frustrated with life, with circumstances, with the people around me, and he'd find me there every time. I think he must have had a contingency spell over the doorway to tell him whenever I went inside."

"What sort of magic was he good at?" Dumbledore asks. "Did he have any special abilities?"

I'm quite happy with how much I've managed to remember so far, but I think back, trying to wring anymore out of my shattered mind. "Ritual magic," I murmur. "I remember him performing many rituals. Soul magic…" I frown thoughtfully, wondering in hindsight if I should be telling this to Dumbledore. "He could talk to snakes."

Dumbledore bows his head over my sketch and sighs a bit. "Then he is who I suspected."

"Who?" I wonder.

"His name was Tom Riddle."

"Yes," I say. "Yes!" I smile gleefully, almost giddily. "That was his name! Oh, dear Tom." I look up into the mirror, and could swear that Tom is looking at Dumbledore a bit disdainfully.

"Was he that dear to you?" Dumbledore asks curiously.

I nod. "Absolutely. I don't remember much, but that much is clear. There was love. We loved one another greatly."

Dumbledore raises an eyebrow, and looks at me with twinkling eyes. "He loved you?"

"Beyond a shadow of a doubt," I say. "Do you know where I might be able to find him? I would like very much to see him again."

"I am sorry," Dumbledore says, shaking his head. "I do not believe that you will be able to find what you seek in this lifetime."

"Oh…" I say, looking at the desk. "Is he dead, then? That's why you asked if I'd gone to the past?"

"He is indeed dead. I hope I have not disappointed you too greatly."

"No, it's alright," I say, waving a hand. "I can't say I'm too surprised. I had hoped, but didn't expect much. I didn't even know who he was until five minutes ago." I smirk. "Just so long as you don't tell me that he's my father and Voldemort betrayed and murdered him."

Dumbledore blinks. "What— Why would you think that?"

I groan. "It's not true, is it? Come on."

"No, not exactly…" Dumbledore says.

I roll my eyes. "Okay, Headmaster, listen. If you've got any weird secrets involving Dark Lords and people's familial relations, just come out with it right now. I don't want to wind up trying to get revenge for my father's death without realizing his killer is my own father in disguise, or accidentally marrying my own sister, or killing my father and marrying my mother, or marrying my father, or whatever else, okay?"

Dumbledore sighs. "Tom Riddle is not your father."

"You're absolutely certain of that?" I press. "Not just 'from a certain point of view' or anything?"

"So far as I am aware, he is not in any way, shape, or form related to you, beyond in the distant manner all wizarding families can trace their lines back. He is, at most possibly, a distant cousin several times removed."

"Okay, good," I say. "Then it's okay to have sex with him."

Dumbledore looks as though he's just swallowed a fly. "Harry, you're eleven."

"Well, obviously not right now, and obviously not while he's dead. But I'm not going to be eleven forever, and I'm eventually going to find some version of him that's alive, somewhere and sometime."

Dumbledore puts his face in his palm. "Yes, Harry, I would imagine that, given the appropriate circumstances and mutual willingness, it would be suitable to engage in relations with Tom Riddle."

"Okay, good, just making sure."

"What of this other man?" Dumbledore asks, gesturing toward the sketch. "Did you… engage in relations with him also?"

"I don't know," I say thoughtfully. "I wouldn't discount it." I shrug. "Do you have any idea who he might be?"

"Can you describe him?"

I tap my finger on the desk. "A real joker. Always quick with some stupid quip. Absolutely no regard for rules or social conventions. Abilities…" I snort softly. "He was quite talented with battle magic. He'd come up with fifty ways to kill someone before you could finish talking to them, and might be impatient enough to not let you finish."

Dumbledore gets a haunted look in his eyes. "Did he ever mention anything about the 'greater good'?"

"Not that I can recall, but that doesn't really mean much."

"Does the name 'Gellert' rings any bells?" Dumbledore says quietly.

"Gellert…" I repeat, and look up at the mirror. The blond boy makes a weird hand gesture with his index and little fingers extended, and vigorously nods his head in the air. I blink in confusion. "Headmaster, this mirror only shows what's in my own mind, doesn't it? It doesn't actually show anything real?"

"That's correct," Dumbledore says. "Why?"

"What does the fact that it brings up things I don't actually remember indicate?" I ask.

"I cannot say," Dumbledore says, looking at the mirror and shaking his head. "I have not heard of a case where someone with such severe amnesia as you had looked into it."

I clear my throat. "Anyway. Gellert. Yes. I am quite certain that the insufferable prat I am currently looking at is Gellert Grindelwald, and that he is completely insane."

The blond boy in the mirror gives me a thumbs-up. The image of Tom Riddle rolls his eyes.

"You have kept interesting company," Dumbledore says evenly.

Tom holds up the book again, pointing to it meaningfully, and then draws a finger across his throat. I understand his meaning immediately. He thinks I should kill myself to prevent this conversation from happening. That is, whatever subconscious part of myself is dedicated to the memory of Tom Riddle believes that I should not allow Dumbledore to find out the things I have told him. Why is he so suspicious of Dumbledore? I look aside and realize that Dumbledore is suspicious of _me_.

"I should really be getting to bed," I say. "Thanks for the help."

"Of course, of course," Dumbledore says distantly.

When I leave the classroom, rather than going straight back to my dorm, I sneak into the potion storage instead. I decide to trust this man I once felt strongly about. This memory of this man. What my subconscious thinks this man would want. Okay, this is confusing. Whatever. Either way, I grab a bottle of poison and drink it down. Dumbledore doesn't need to know this much about my past and the people I knew.

Even as the poison runs its course and my life slips away, I have to wonder what was so imperative about Dumbledore not finding this out.

* * *

After I wake, I head down to the Mirror of Erised again and start sketching the woman. I know who the two men are, but so far as the woman is concerned, all I know is that she's a Black. And the feeling that she was probably my wife.

"Back again, Harry?" Dumbledore says, appearing from thin air as before.

"Yep," I reply. "Just let me draw this, okay?"

"What are you drawing? Is that a woman?"

"My past and future wife," I say with a sigh. "I miss her terribly and I don't even remember her name. I hope I can find her again."

"Ah," Dumbledore says, nodding. "I see."

"I wonder how this mirror really works," I muse. "Is there any chance I could study it at a later date, when I've learned more about item enchantment?"

"We'll see," Dumbledore says. "The mirror shows your heart's desire. Great men have wasted away staring longingly into it."

"More the fools, they, then," I say. "You can never obtain what you wish simply by wishing for it. I'd say that it's useful because sometimes people aren't always honest even to themselves what they really want out of life. But foolish to become obsessed with a wish rather than doing something about it."

"What if that wish is an impossible one?" Dumbledore asks.

"Everything is possible," I say. "In the right time, in the right place, in the right universe. If someone truly wishes to attain something, they shouldn't let such little considerations as _possibility_ hinder them. If you believe something is impossible from the outset, you doom yourself to failure before you've even begun."

"You have an interesting viewpoint," Dumbledore says. "I would imagine that your travels through time have given you a unique outlook on the universe."

I put away my sketch and go up and touch the glass. "I will seek you in eternity, my love. I will find you again. I promise."

The woman smiles brightly back at me.

"You'd best be along to bed now, my boy," Dumbledore says. "The mirror will be moved after tonight. I advise you not to seek it out again."

I roll my eyes. Did he hear nothing that I just said? "Don't worry, Headmaster. I have no need of empty wishes."

* * *

A quick search in the library reveals one big reason why the Tom in my mind thought it was a good idea to prevent Dumbledore from learning what I'd learned. Gellert Grindelwald was a Dark Lord several decades ago, and one Dumbledore had fought. Dumbledore already knows I've declared myself a Dark Lord, what if he knew I'd been associating with Dark Lords of the past?

That all just leaves me wondering who Tom Riddle really was, who this woman is, and this house-elf. Was he just as disturbed about my relationship with Tom as he was with Gellert? Caught up in trying to catch fleeting glimpses of memory, I wasn't really paying attention to Dumbledore's reaction to all that.

I quietly go up to Draco in our dorm. "Draco," I say. "You know of a lot of purebloods, right?"

"At least their families," Draco says. "I've at least probably heard of a lot of the major families. Why?"

"While we were out last night, Ron and I stumbled upon a magic mirror stored in an unused classroom," I explain. "He saw himself as Head Boy, while I saw a woman I believe to be my future wife." I pull out the sketch I'd drawn and show it to him. "Do you have any idea who she might be?"

Draco holds up the parchment to the light, looking over it and frowning thoughtfully. "She doesn't look like any one of our classmates, certainly. But looking at the shape of her face, the cheekbones, I'd say she's probably a Black, or a close relative of one."

That's nothing more than Dumbledore told me. "Who in particular, though?"

Draco shakes his head. "I don't recognize her. My mother's a Black, so I've met most of the living ones. Maybe she's a bastard, or a Squib's baby, or someone who hasn't been born yet."

"Are you sure?" I wonder.

He nods. "I'm my mother's only child. She has two sisters. One of them married a Muggleborn and has one daughter, and this isn't her. The other is in prison and has no children." He taps the parchment, continuing. "Alphard has no children. As for my cousins, the male line of Black, Sirius is in prison and Regulus is dead. Bastards are certainly possible. If Sirius or Regulus had a bastard, they'd be around our age."

"So an illegitimate child of Sirius or Regulus Black might be the most likely candidate?"

Draco nods. "I'd say so."

"She's not one of our classmates, though," I point out.

"She might be, at most, a year younger than us, maybe," Draco says. "Or more likely, she's not going to Hogwarts at all. Maybe her mother took her out of the country. Maybe she's going to Beauxbatons or Durmstrang or someplace."

"I really want to meet her," I say softly, taking the picture back from him and looking over it fondly.

"If she's really destined to be your future wife, won't you meet her eventually anyway?" Draco wonders.

"I don't know," I say. "I feel like I might miss the opportunity if I don't do something soon."

"I suppose if you want to be proactive about it, you could check the other schools to see if there's anyone matching her description there," Draco says, then pauses. "Is that why Ron was studying harder than Hermione today?"

I laugh. "I told him if he wanted to be Head Boy, he'd have to earn it. Guess he took me seriously."

"Well, if you're going to obsess over a girl who might be your wife, I guess you could do worse than a pureblood or half-blood of Black blood."

"Why, Draco, you're suggesting me marrying a half-blood would be good?" I grin at him.

"Don't tell anyone I said that," Draco says with a smirk.

"I heard you," Ron pipes up from the next bed.

Draco rolls his eyes, and says with a chuckle, "Shut up, Ron."


	6. Rage

"Why are you so obsessed over this girl you've never met?" Draco wonders as we're packing our bags. "And no, I haven't told anyone outside this dorm."

"I'm not obsessed," I say, haphazardly tossing socks into my trunk. "It's not like I've let up on our studies or been constantly daydreaming about her."

"You better not spend all Yule trying to track her down," Draco says. "We're supposed to be relaxing and having fun on holiday."

"Hmm, there's a good point," I say. "Maybe your mother would recognize her."

Draco rolls his eyes and throws up his hands. "Fine, fine, ask my mum, do what you want."

I look over to Ron sitting glumly on his bed. "You're not packing?"

Ron shakes his head. "I'm staying at Hogwarts this holiday."

"What, your family doesn't want to see their little blood-traitor-traitor?" Blaise says with a grin.

"They're visiting my brother Charlie in Romania," Ron says. "It's not that they don't want to see me."

"You can keep telling yourself that," Blaise says.

"Lay off my family, Zabini," Ron snaps. "Whatever they've done, whatever traditions they've broken, whatever they've said to me, they're still my _family_."

"After all the Howlers you've gotten from your mum, she must—"

Ron's wand is in his hand in the blink of an eye, pointed at Blaise. "Say one word about my mum and I'll hex you."

Blaise holds up his hands in surrender.

"You don't have to stay at Hogwarts, Ron," Draco says. "You can stay at Malfoy Manor with me and Harry." He grins. "Besides, can't really show you the Yule rites if you don't come along, right?"

Ron puts his wand away and looks over to Draco. "You want me to spend the holidays with you?"

"And it'll definitely be better than whatever hovel it is you live in," Draco adds with a grin.

Ron snorts softly. "I like my hovel."

"I'm sure it's rather… cozy?" Draco says, and lowers his voice. "Being perfectly honest here, nice as it is to boast about living in a manor, it feels pretty empty sometimes with just me, my parents, my grandfather, and some house-elves. Sometimes I wish I had brothers and sisters, too."

"Really?" Ron says, eyes widening.

"Don't tell anyone," Draco adds.

"You keep saying not to tell anyone when we're right here," Blaise says. "Nott over there is probably just making note of everything for later blackmail material."

"I am not," Theodore says.

"That's true, you are Nott," Blaise says.

Theodore rolls his eyes. "That was horrible."

"Wonderful, you can look forward to another seven years of Nott jokes," I say. These children are such _children_ sometimes.

"And you wonder why I don't say much," Theodore says dryly.

"Will Hermione be visiting too?" Ron asks.

"I'm hoping to get her over for Yule rites, at least," Draco says, then gestures toward Ron's trunk. "You'd better get packed if you're coming."

"Wouldn't miss it," Ron says, hopping off his bed and opening his trunk, already seeming more chipper.

* * *

"These are the friends you mentioned, Draco?" says Lucius Malfoy, looking over the three of us disdainfully once we've come off the train.

"My name is Ronald Weasley, sir," Ron says, giving a hesitant bow.

"At least my son has taught you some manners," Lucius mutters, then turns to me. "And that would make this our new… Dark Lord?"

"That's me," I say with a gracious smile. "Darth Revan. Also known as Harry Potter." I nod to him in greeting. "Nice to meet you."

"A pleasure, I'm certain," Lucius says dryly. "I have been quite curious to meet you, after all I have heard about you."

"I get that a lot," I say. "I don't think I'm quite what a lot of people seem to expect." I shrug helplessly. "Expectations can be a tricky thing. People always want to see what they expect to see, and sometimes they'll ignore what they're actually looking at because of it." I smile at him magnanimously. "But I'm certain that you're not the sort of person to blindly follow along with what you believe or expect."

Lucius looks down at me as if he has no idea what to make of me. He glances about at the other people milling about the platform, some of whom are looking at us. "Of course," Lucius says, gesturing. "Come. Let us get to Malfoy Manor without further delay."

* * *

"You wish to bring a Mudblood to our Yule party?" Lucius says quietly to Draco.

People say the most interesting things when they think I'm not listening. I continue to blissfully pretend to be reading _Hogwarts: A History_ while they're talking on the other side of the room. If they didn't want me to hear, they could at least take this discussion to another room.

"Yes," Draco says. "I'm teaching her. I'm trying to make sure she's _not_ acting like a stupid Mudblood and actually integrating herself into our culture and society, and not trying to spread Muggle ways."

"That's all well and good, but you can't change her blood, Draco," Lucius says.

"No, I can't," Draco replies. "That doesn't mean she couldn't be a valuable ally anyway. She's the most talented witch in our class. No, I'm not ashamed to admit it. I'm not going to deny what I see right in front of me. She studies a lot, sure, but she casts every spell right on the first try. Just studying can't explain that. And just because she's Muggleborn doesn't mean I'm stupid enough not to recognize talent when I see it. It would pay to have her on my side."

Lucius sighs. "I will grudgingly admit that she might be a useful ally, but that doesn't mean you have to share our rites with her, too. At least the Weasley boy is a pureblood."

"Weasley and Potter have lost the spells and rites of their lines," Draco says. "Granger never had them. Knowing her, once she has the foundation down, she's likely to invent new ones of her own, and who knows what she might come up with."

"Are you suggesting that we may be able to take advantage of her gratitude by sharing in whatever knowledge she may accrue?" Lucius says, raising an eyebrow. "How can you be certain that this Mudblood would be capable of creating, rather than merely blindly casting spells by rote?"

"I can't," Draco says. "But even if she can't—"

"No, Draco," Lucius says. "I will not allow a Mudblood into my house, and I will not show her my rites, and I forbid you from doing so. You may, however, show Potter and Weasley whatever you know."

"Yes, Father," Draco says, looking down.

"You may also continue attempting to indoctrinate her into our culture," Lucius says. "You seem to have had some success in turning the Weasley boy away from his family's blood traitor ways. _If_ she proves to be as talented as you believe, as well as loyal to our family, I may reconsider."

"She might be descended from a Squib—"

" _If_ you can find proof of her bloodline," Lucius adds.

"Yes, Father," Draco says.

"As for Potter," Lucius says, glancing over toward me. "I will not utter a word against him, particularly not in his presence, but you are not to do anything to anger or even annoy him, am I clear?"

"Of course, Father," Draco says quietly.

"I do not know what he is, but if he is not merely the boy he appears to be, then I would not wish him to be against us," Lucius says. "If he is what I suspect—"

"Dark Lord," I interject, calling across the room. "Told you. Oh, by the way, I can hear you over here."

Draco looks over at me in exasperation. "Will you stop doing that?"

I laugh aloud, even as Lucius gives him a horrified look. "Totally not my fault," I say. "Lucky for you, I don't actually care what you're saying. Unless you were talking about betraying and murdering me. Then I would have to torture you to death on principle for being stupid enough to talk about betraying me right in front of me."

Lucius pales and his eyes widen. "Of course not," he says quickly.

"Hey, Draco," I say. "Catch!" I hurl the book I wasn't really reading toward him.

Draco manages to catch the book with a grunt, almost falling over. "Hey, what are you doing throwing _Hogwarts: A History_ around? That's a deadly weapon!"

"It'll kill you from boredom, it will," I say. "Good thing Hermione has already read it at least three times. We can just ask her what it says."

"Excuse me," Lucius says, hurriedly leaving the room.

* * *

It seems everyone who is anyone in pureblood society is at the Malfoys' Yule party. I recognize a number of my classmates here, many of the Slytherins in my year, some from the upper years, and a few that I think are in Ravenclaw. Ron is just doing his best to try to be polite and respectful. Pansy introduces me to her father.

Lucius introduces me to some of the wizards who don't have children that I know. "This is Macnair," Lucius says as we go past. Some of them seem distantly familiar, but for the most part they don't manage a blip on my sensors.

And then we come to one whose face brings up a flash of memory. Scenes. Emotion. _Rage_. The Dark Side floods into me in an instant.

" _Yaxley!_ " I yell, lifting my left hand toward him. The Force slams into him with the strength of a Star Destroyer, lifting him off the ground.

Yaxley clutches at his throat and tries to choke words out, struggling against my hold.

"How many Muggle women did you rape, Yaxley?" I growl. "You think the Imperio-Obliviate trick is cute, do you? Have a little fun, think you can get away with it? Did you think no one would find out? _Did you think I wouldn't find out?_ "

"M-M-My lord…" Yaxley stammers, breath catching in his throat.

"There are some lines you _do not cross_ ," I roar.

"P-P-Please, have mercy…"

I narrow my eyes at him, and say evenly, "No." With a twist of my hand, I hurl him against the wall and snap his neck.

The rage slowly subsides within me, and I realize that the room has gone silent and everyone is staring at me. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have done that. Not here, not in front of so many people.

"Excuse me," I say more quietly, and turn to abscond from the party and head to my room.

As I leave the room, Lucius says quietly, "Aaaaaand that is why you do not annoy him."

"Point taken," Draco says tensely.

* * *

Sitting in my room, fuming, I can clearly remember murdering Yaxley in more than one life. I wish I hadn't done that. I should have just murdered him quietly. Killing myself isn't the answer to everything, though. I can't just keep offing myself over everything that doesn't go perfectly. This was probably a bigger blunder than Dumbledore finding out who my friends were. Unless the Tom in me thinks Dumbledore is the greater threat. But no, Dumbledore will find out about this regardless.

There's a hesitant knock on my door. "Harry? It's me, Draco."

"Come in," I say, trying not to growl at him.

The door opens, and Draco comes inside and closes it behind him. "Are you— Are you alright?"

I nod curtly. "Yeah. I shouldn't have done that, though."

"You're, uh, crackling. And your eyes are yellow."

I take a deep breath. I am the eye of the storm. I will not let my emotions control me. The crackling subsides.

"Eyes still yellow," Draco says.

I sigh. "Can't be helped right now. Still pissed off."

"You… remember him? You're really…"

I lower my head and clench my eyes shut. "I shouldn't have done that. They're all going to be afraid of me now. That's not what I want."

"If you don't want them all to remember that, I'm sure my father can do something about that," Draco suggests.

I nod, and without another word, I stand and stride down the hallway, and return to the main room. Fortunately, Lucius is near the hallway to my room. I approach.

"Lucius," I say quietly. "Make sure that the guests do not remember that. I do not want them to know."

"Y-Yes, my lord," Lucius says. "I will modify their memories at once. And what about Yaxley?"

"Come up with some excuse as to why he is dead and cover it up," I reply flatly.

"Of course, of course," Lucius says hurriedly.

"I'm going to go calm down," I grumble. "He really pissed me off." I head back down the hallway and gesture to Draco to follow me. "Draco, find me something to destroy that nobody will care about."

"Right, this way," Draco says. He leads me off down the corridor to another section of the manor, and we enter a room full of target dummies. "This room is magically shielded, and the targets are spelled to regenerate."

I nod, and lift my hand to blast Force Lightning at one of them. "Good. This will suffice. Thank you."

"I'll leave you to that, then," Draco says nervously.

I shake my head. "No. Stay. Please."

"Well, alright."

"Need someone to talk to, at least," I say, blasting another dummy. "Fucking Death Eaters who think they can do whatever they want."

"You really do remember," Draco whispers.

I scowl, and shock another target. "It's not what you think. But that doesn't matter right now."

"What do you mean?"

Another dummy falls over from a blast of lightning. "You and your father are going to be afraid of me now. I'm sorry. I could have made you two forget as well. But this was my own mistake." I snarl, and zap the next dummy. "Mine. Me!" _Zap._ "I'm angry at myself." _Zap._ "I am in control here." _Zap._ "Not my emotions." _Zap._ "I kill who I chose to kill." _Zap._ "My emotions do not control me." _Zap._ "I am not some dumbfuck idiot Dark Lord that just destroys everything around me whenever I feel like it!" A burst of electricity explodes around me, and all of the dummies fall over at once.

"Um…" Draco says, taking a step back.

I slump to the floor, drained of emotion and Force power.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Draco asks quietly.

I nod slowly. "Think so. Don't run away. Don't be afraid. Please. I swear to you, I will not harm a friend. You don't need to tremble in fear around me."

"I'm still your friend," Draco says.

I let out a heavy breath. "Sometime I need to accept that my actions have consequences and I can't just pretend they don't and do whatever I feel like, no matter how stupid it is." I shake my head. "I don't think it's even that. I don't care that Yaxley is dead. But I don't like that, after everything, that I could still lose control like that. I just— I remembered what he'd done, in a flash, too fast." I put my face in my hand. "I shouldn't even be telling you this."

"How much do you remember?" Draco asks.

"Too much and not enough," I reply, then pause. "I'm not Voldemort. Don't think that I am. I'm a completely different, saner, and less stupid Dark Lord. Or at least I'd like to think so."

"Well, aside from murdering former Death Eaters for legitimate reasons…"

"I don't regret killing Yaxley," I say. "I regret letting you see that part of me."

"For what it's worth," Draco says slowly, "You don't have to hide from me."

I give a small smile. "Thanks, Draco." I look up over at him. "Are my eyes green again?"

Draco nods. "Yeah."

I stand. "Let's go see if your father is finished yet, and then get something to eat either way. I'm starved. Ugh, expending that much magic at once really takes it out of you."

Taking no great rush about it, the two of us make our way down the corridors of the manor.

"Is it done?" I quietly ask Lucius as I enter the main hall.

"Yes, my lord," Lucius replies.

I nod tersely. "That's good. Thank you. And I would rather you didn't call me 'my lord' in public."

Lucius looks at me with a touch of surprise. I don't imagine he's used to being thanked by Dark Lords. "Of course, Mr. Potter."

He thinks I'm Voldemort. Draco thinks I'm Voldemort. They would all think I'm Voldemort if I hadn't had Lucius wipe their memories. And with all that, they think I'm the wrong Dark Lord. And it was all because I remembered something I shouldn't have. They might have suspected something was strange about me from school, from my declaration of myself as Darth Revan, from my behavior in general, but there I pretty much proved their suspicions. And their suspicions were completely wrong. I'm going to have a hell of a time explaining this to Lucius and Draco. It would probably be simpler if they just thought I'm Voldemort, or at least some surviving fragment of Voldemort. I'm not sure yet.

I set my face into a pleasant mask and go to sample a little bit of everything available and mingle with the guests, and try very, very hard not to murder anyone else.


	7. Yuletide Gifts

"That was some party, huh?" Ron said, yawning, as the last of the guests wanders off. Either he didn't see or hear of what happened with Yaxley, or Lucius Obliviated him also. Just as well, really. I don't know that Ron is quite ready for seeing me throwing around the Dark Side yet.

"Mr. Weasley," Lucius says. "If you are tired, you may take a nap, but be awake before dawn, or you will not be able to perform the Ritual of Concord with the other children."

Ron makes a face, never one to be awake before he has to be, but just says, "Yes, sir. I wouldn't miss it."

"I agree," I say. "A nap sounds good."

Not only am I feeling rather drained, but I'd really rather not repeat the entire day. Even though, as I head to my room, I still have a niggling doubt about letting this stand. No, I tell myself as I close the door behind me. Stop doubting yourself. This is unbecoming of a Dark Lord. I chose to do this, and I will own my mistakes. Where did the idea of deliberately killing myself to reset the timeline come from, anyway? I might have gotten reckless a few times when I knew the situation was hopeless, but the only time I did it with full intent was when I cut off my head with a lightsaber to avoid being trapped in a cave.

No, I realize abruptly. That feeling is a lingering memory of a bad habit I picked up in this universe, bubbling to the surface again. Apparently the first time I went through this universe, the first few times, who knows how many times, I was still obsessed with making sure everything was perfect and that nothing went in a way I didn't want it to. Now that I've pinned down the source of that feeling, I lay down in bed. I can relax and just roll with whatever happens. The universe doesn't need to be perfect. What's perfect, anyway? I'm here to learn and remember, not to save the world or even aim toward any particular outcome.

Why am I still concerned about Dumbledore, then?

* * *

After a brisk nap, I wake up and head out to meet up with the others. I've gotten quite a bit of practice in getting to sleep and waking up whenever I want to, but at least I no longer have nightmares about dying repeatedly. Now I have perfectly normal nightmares about facing down Dark Lords while wearing pajamas.

On the way down the corridor, Draco's mother ambushes me and pulls me aside for a private conversation.

"Lord… er, Darth Revan?" Narcissa begins uncertainly.

"That's Darth Revan, or Lord Revan," I say absently. "Or just Revan. Darth is a title."

"As you say, Lord Revan," Narcissa says.

"You wished to speak with me?" I prod. I would generally prefer to be less formal, but this is a long-familiar role to slip into, and not just from nebulous memories.

Narcissa wrings her hands. "I wanted to ask you, please don't harm my son. He hasn't done anything—"

I raise a hand to cut her off, and sigh. "I do not intend to harm your son. He is my friend. I will not, under any circumstances, bring harm unto one whom I consider to be a friend or ally. To do otherwise is foolish and wasteful." I give her a pointed look. "I am not Lord Voldemort. Set aside whatever you knew of him."

"Yes, Lord Revan," Narcissa says. "Thank you."

Ron hasn't shown up yet, but Draco, his father, and his grandfather are there. The old man wasn't at the party, but seems determined to be here, despite not looking well.

"Ah, here he is, Father. Mr. Potter," Lucius says. "I do not believe you have yet met my grandfather."

The old man says in a raspy voice, "I am Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy, paterfamilias of the House of Malfoy. Welcome to my home."

I give him a shallow bow. I would rather not bow to anyone, but a polite gesture of respect rather than fealty. I'm in his house, after all. Draco has been telling us the manners of pureblood society, how to greet someone to indicate social status and respect, how deep to bow respective of status and location. It's all very complicated, and I honestly think Ron has a better grasp of it than me at the moment. I'm shackled with ages of pride and not giving a fuck.

"I am Harry James Potter, paterfamilias of the House of Potter. I am grateful to your welcome."

"The heir, you mean," Abraxas says. "Even if you're the last of your line, you can't claim the title of paterfamilias until you're of age."

I give him a wild grin. "I can and I have."

"Is that so?" Abraxas says, exchanging a look with Lucius, who is looking back at him significantly. "As you say." He inclines his head toward me. "The goblins won't allow you full access to your vaults until you are seventeen, of course."

I snort softly. "Magic doesn't care what the goblins think."

"Well said." Abraxas chuckles. "I was wondering if you realized that."

It has taken some getting used to, how the Force in this universe feels more… complex. With the Jedi and the Sith, the Force was raw, wild power, only loosely controlled even of itself. Pure emotion, simple like a child, but powerful in and of itself. In this universe? It feels like the Force has grown up, so to speak. It understands rules in ways mere Jedi intervention cannot explain. The Force ebbs and flows, stronger on some days of the year, at some times of the month, and I've felt it and watched it. I do not yet understand how spells and rituals are created, but I do realize that the words and shapes have meaning and that the Force reacts to them.

Further discussion is set aside by Ron entering the room. Introductions are made, and Ron bows deeply toward Abraxas. At first, when Draco tried to explain it all, Ron had believed that it was because of his family's social standing, but Draco explained that, as the youngest son of a cadet branch of the Weasley family, he should certainly be polite to the heir and head of a noble house. Ron was set at ease when Draco also pointed out that both of them would have to bow to me in a formal setting, whether I were heir or head of the Potter family.

"The rite we will be perform this morning is called the Ritual of Concord," Lucius explains. "We have already made most of the preparations, and we will need to be ready by dawn."

"Is it the Winter Solstice, sir?"

Lucius looks down at him and speaks with patience as though addressing a small child. "No. The actual Winter Solstice was December 22nd this year. You might notice that the students are only allowed to leave Hogwarts after the Solstice is over. No doubt a carefully calculated move on account of those who would prefer we did not perform these rites."

Ron frowns, and nods thoughtfully. Pansy and Blaise come in next one by one, and Lucius nods to them in greeting. Pansy smiles at us with a bright, slightly predatory grin.

"These are Yule rites," Lucius goes on to explain. "Yule lasts for twelve days, between the year past and the year to come." Casting a brief look to Ron, he pauses to add dryly, "You may have heard of the 'Twelve Days of Christmas'." He continues more seriously. "Certain kinds of magic are stronger during this period. The most powerful days of the year are Samhain and Beltane, of course. This, however, is a time of change, of connection, of bringing together. Thus, rituals involving these in particular are stronger."

Crabbe and Goyle finally wander into the room, looking quite tired still.

Lucius looks over to them in exasperation. "You are late. You were supposed to be here an hour ago. You very nearly missed the ritual."

"Sorry, sir," Crabbe says. Or maybe Goyle. I didn't really get to know them well enough to remember.

"House-elf woke us up," grumble the other.

Narcissa comes out with seven white candles set in elegant silver holders, and places them in front of us in a chevron facing east. Lucius directs us to positions, with Draco at the front, me and Pansy behind him, Ron and Blaise next, and Crabbe and Goyle at the ends. I look over the arrangement thoughtfully, trying to puzzle out the meaning, but I'm drawing a blank. Either I simply can't remember much, or I was never really that familiar with ritual magic in any lifetime.

"And so to that end, we have brought children of seven houses together in concord," Lucius goes on, gliding past Crabbe and Goyle's interruption without missing a beat.

"What does it do?" Ron asks.

"It will create a mild aura of affinity," Lucius explains. "Your spells will be slightly stronger and come more easily when you are working together."

That sounds fine to me, although I wonder if he's being entirely truthful or disclosing all information. I do wonder if he's actually using this to make sure we're all a bit more loyal to Draco. Well, if he is, I don't actually care, and I just wish that he'd say so. A calculated risk of making sure his son is protected, though, I can appreciate.

"What is the significance of the positions?" I ask.

"Draco is leading the ritual due to his experience in ritual magic, and because it was his idea," Lucius says, the corners of his lips quirking for a moment. "Then it is balanced by magical strength." He gives a look to Crabbe and Goyle, but if they're offended at being placed behind Ron, they don't show it.

Ah, it was Draco's idea? I relax. I can immediately trust it if it was Draco's idea rather than Lucius'.

"Draco, you may take over from here," Lucius says.

Draco nods. "Alright. When the sun comes through the window, I will light my candle. Then each row lights theirs after the person in front of you has lit theirs."

Draco brings his wand out and kneels in front of his candle, and the rest of us follow his lead and do likewise.

"On this day, we gather here in concord," Draco says haltingly, as if he's uncertain what he's saying at first, then slowly growing in confidence. "Together we stand, side by side. Together we walk, to face what may come. Together we raise our hands, to reach out for our dreams."

Through the window, the sun's first rays stream into the room. He raises his wand and points it toward his candle. " _Ignis amicorum._ " A golden flame flickers into existence atop the white wax.

I follow suit, raising my own wand to the candle. It's not an incantation I recognize, but the spell seems simple enough. " _Ignis amicorum_." A breathtakingly soothing sensation rushes through me, sparking a blue light onto the wick of my candle.

As the others follow suit around me, filling the room with light and warmth, I realize I didn't need to worry about being forced into anything unwillingly. This ritual would not work if one wasn't willing to participate, because of the emotional state. We all had to want to be here and choose to do this. I don't know if the others were told the details ahead of time, or what their parents were told, since the children appear to have come alone. But either way, this had to be their own decision, made of their own free will without coercion or pressure.

Crabbe's candle lights last, adding a gray-blue cast to the room. With all seven flames burning, an uplifting feeling permeates us. For a few moments, I can feel them, hear their heartbeats, sense their emotions, and then it fades. Pansy looks aside to me, her smiling face lit up by red-violet flame, a more genuine smile this time.

"Wicked," breathes Ron.

"Totally," Blaise agrees. "We wicked those candles good."

I laugh aloud, looking back at them, Ron with an orange-red flame and Blaise with blood red.

"You guys are horrible," Pansy says, rolling her eyes.

Draco can't help but chuckle himself, slowly standing. "It's alright. The ritual is complete."

Lucius looks horrified and speechless, but Narcissa is smiling at us warmly.

Abraxas seems pleased and highly amused. "It eases this old heart to know that my grandson will be supported and protected."

And for all that, I can't help but wish Hermione were here.

* * *

One the other children have returned home, Narcissa directs us to a pile of gifts.

"The exchange of gifts is a means of bringing people together and expressing emotion," Narcissa explains. "No monetary value is necessary. The emotional attachment is what's important, whether that be love or compassion. An obligatory gift given to one hated will be received with hate." She gestures toward the packages. "Some owls arrived carrying presents for some of us as well. They might say 'Happy Christmas', but we'll accept them in good grace and the intention expressed with them."

As we divvy out the gifts, Ron notices his own small pile. "You guys got me presents? But I didn't get you anything."

"That's quite alright, dear," Narcissa says with a smile.

Ron opens up their present, pulling out a pair of sturdy leather boots.

"Good shoes are the most important part of the wardrobe," Lucius says, although given that I haven't seen him wearing the same outfit twice, I have to wonder how sincere he is. "They're charmed to change sizes with you, self-cleaning, and resistant to most forms of damage."

"These must have been very expensive," Ron says, frowning thoughtfully.

"Don't worry about it, dear," Narcissa says, waving a hand. "It's a gift."

Ron finally says, "Thank you, sir, ma'am."

Hermione sent us all books, unsurprisingly. A few of the other children sent candy.

An anonymous gift to me turns out to be an invisibility cloak, with a note reading, "Your father left this with me before he died. You should have it. Happy Christmas."

Then Ron notices a package marked as being from his mother. He unwraps it to find a sweater knitted from green yarn, with the letter R in white on the front. "My mum made me a sweater," he says quietly, hugging it close this chest as tears well up in his eyes.

* * *

With everyone else having gone home and things quieted down, I settle into the library with Draco, with the books Hermione sent us. I'm a bit tired, but don't really want to sleep just yet. I find today I'm not all that worried about dying.

"So, I have to ask," Draco says quietly. "You call yourself the Dark Lord and all, but you didn't want people to remember the what happened at the party, to know about what you really are? Why?"

"I don't want them to realize that I was serious when I proclaimed myself the Dark Lord," I say. "It's a double-bluff, really. I call myself the Dark Lord, and then proceed to act like, well, whatever they think the complete opposite of a Dark Lord is supposed to act like." I scowl, and continue disdainfully, "You know. Torturing my own minions for imagined failings and things beyond their control. Becoming unreasonably obsessed over stupid lost dark artifacts. Murdering people for fun, and not for entirely legitimate reasons that just happened to be at an unfortunate time and place."

"You want people to believe that, because you publicly declared yourself the Dark Lord at eleven years old, that you couldn't possibly be the Dark Lord?" Draco says.

I grin at him. "Exactly." I pace around the room thoughtfully. "There's another angle to it, as well." I lower my voice. "I'm pretty sure there's still a piece of Voldemort floating around out there. And I'm more than pretty sure that this particular piece is completely insane. I mean," I smirk, "I can't say I'm exactly the paragon of sanity over here myself, but, Merlin's balls…" I shake my head.

"I don't follow," Draco says.

"That's it precisely," I say. "I don't want people to be able to take _him_ seriously either or want to follow him. All this talk of You-Know-Who, fucking He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, more grandiose bullshit than he really deserves. I don't want people to be afraid of his name any longer. So, if they want to distinguish him from me, they'll have to say Lord Voldemort, at best."

"So," Draco says, a little confused. "Are you, or are you not, Lord Voldemort?"

I laugh softly. "That's a good question, isn't it? The answer is more complicated than you might imagine, and that's just the parts I _know_ about. For all that I remember things I shouldn't and I'm more powerful than an eleven-year-old has any right to be, I can't even be certain if there's any part of what Voldemort is or was in me, or ever was. And my main goal right now is mostly to figure out just who I am, and to relearn skills I'm pretty sure I must have known at some point. I've got raw power, but when it comes to finesse, I need a lot of work. You might have noticed that in our classes."

I don't know if there's any real need to tell them that I'm a time traveler, certainly not at this junction. It's not really relevant, considering I don't really remember anything of the future of this universe. And having been a Sith Lord in another universe? What would be the point? They think that universe is just a story. Let them think that I'm just referring to that story when I call myself Darth Revan. Let them think it's all one big joke.

I look at him seriously. "But… If you ever need to get me under control, if I ever lose control again like that in a situation where it would be bad, if I might wind up destroying something you would not want destroyed…" I take a deep breath. "Say these words to me. 'Eye of the storm'. I've conditioned myself, in a way, to respond to those words. I know I'm prone to violent outbursts. Those are the words I repeat to myself to try to control myself. It doesn't always work, and sometimes I forget. Sometimes I forget what I'm doing, where I am, who I am…" I put a hand to my forehead and sigh.

"You're putting a lot of trust in me, telling me this," Draco says quietly.

"I'll trust that you won't use it except in an emegency," I say quietly. "And I hope that you never have to."

* * *

"I'm looking for a book," I tell Lucius. "I'm wondering if you have it, or know where I can find it."

"What is the title?" Lucius asks.

"I don't know," I say with a helpless gesture. "I don't remember. I'd recognize it if I saw it, though. It belonged to one Tom Riddle."

"Hmm, that's not much to go on," Lucius says. "Have you checked my library?"

I smirk. "The one accessible to guests, yes. It wasn't there. I would guess you'd have another library somewhere. It's what I would do." I pause. "Of course, I'd probably put a double-secret library in, too, just to confuse the people who think they've found the real secret library, where I'd put the real things I didn't want people to see, and only put mild secrets in the fake secret library that I wouldn't mind terribly much if someone found out."

Lucius gives me a strange look. "Paranoid, but are you paranoid enough?"

"Well, after all that, the things that I didn't want people to find out no matter what would be locked behind a blood test, a passcode in a long-forgotten language, and a personality test full of trick questions."

"That might be paranoid enough," Lucius says with a faint smirk. "Very well. Let us see if the book you seek resides elsewhere."

He takes me down a meandering series of corridors — I have to wonder just how large this manor really is, particularly since they don't seem too inclined to obey the laws of physics. Rooms are placed in locations that no room could possibly be, of a size much larger than could fit there, and corridors turn in upon themselves but come out to someplace different. Stairs lead up but come out into a basement.

"I advise not coming down here without knowing where you are going," Lucius says. "As you might have noticed, the corridors are arranged to confuse intruders, and many of the books are traps or have safeguards placed upon them."

"Noted," I say, walking along the shelves and scanning the books, judging their size, reading the titles. There are many here that would doubtless be interesting to me at some point in the future (or past, I suppose), but right now they aren't what I'm looking for. I have to wonder if this is a test of some sort. I always wonder if Lucius is testing me. He's afraid of me. He doesn't trust me, so I can't fully trust him. He'll do what I want only so far as his fear goes, or through Draco. I also have to wonder if he knows exactly what book I'm talking about, too.

"Do you see it?" Lucius asks.

I shake my head. "I'm not seeing it. Is there anywhere else it could be?"

Lucius looks at me calculatingly. "There is one more place in this house that it might be. Come."

He leads me on another round through the house. I'll have to admit at this point that I am completely lost. That was probably his intention, too. Make sure that I can't find my way back easily. We stop outside another door.

"Remain here for a moment," Lucius says. "I will open the way."

I nod, and wait in the hallway as he goes inside, probably to hide something he doesn't want me to see or to open a secret door in a way he doesn't want me to know. After a minute, Lucius comes out again and gestures me inside. There is, indeed, what appears to be a secret passageway along one wall, currently open and leading down into another hidden room.

Tables and shelves line the walls, arrayed with an assortment of relics that I could not begin to identify for the most part. I keep my hands to myself and keep my eyes open for a book. There are a few here and there, but this is no library, and and any book kept here must be unique and special.

An unassuming little book lies upon one of the tables, its simple black leather cover seeming out of place amongst the arcane and archaic artifacts housed here. I approach and examine it more closely. Yes, it matches the color and proportions of the memory in the mirror, but more than that, I _know_ this is the right book. Glimpses in my mind, seeing this book many times, always with strong emotion attached.

"This is it," I say, tapping it with my fingers.

A glance over toward Lucius confirms that this is definitely the right book and he knows it. Tom must have given it to him at some point, I'd guess.

"Ah, you found it after all," Lucius says with a thin mouth.

Clutching the book to my chest, I head over back toward the entrance and incline my head toward him. "You have my gratitude. Thank you."

He nods to me tersely, then leads me back to my room. As he walks away and I close the door, he mutters barely audibly, "I hope this does not drive him as mad as he was before."


	8. Questions Without Answers

Alone in my room, I sit down and open up the book, only to see a blank page. I flip through it. Every page is blank. Of course, I must have charmed it to only reveal the information stored within it when given the proper access codes. I pull out a quill, dip it in ink, and put it to the paper.

"Access data," I write.

The writing sinks into the paper, and in a moment, ink wells up on the page to form new words. "Who are you?"

I chuckle aloud, and write back, "That's the question of the ages, isn't it? In this life, I am known as Harry Potter. In the immediate previous life, I was known as Revan. Darth Revan. Although my birth name in that lifetime was Lexen Skywalker. I have gone by many times, lived many lives and died more times than I can count, traveled the width and breadth of space and time, forgotten more than most people will ever know. I'm the amnesiac Dark Lord who is currently in possession of this journal, and I believe you contain some of my memories. So I'll put that question back to you. Who am I?"

"I might hold some answers for you," the diary writes back. "First, I will need a verification of identity."

"Passcode: There is no temptation. There is only choice."

"I don't recognize that passcode."

I grumble aloud, then write, "Damn, it was worth a try."

"Let me test your blood."

"Of course," I write, and bring out a knife. I make a small cut on my right hand, and dribble a few drops of blood onto the page, where they disappear just as the ink had.

"Your blood doesn't match the one I remember," the diary writes. "That may not mean much, if you've died as many times as you say."

I frown, then scribble, "Request alternate verification method."

"What _do_ you remember?"

"Scattered bits and pieces," I write. "Nothing that goes together in a cohesive pattern. Sometimes it's hard to tell which lifetime, which timeline, which universe memories are from."

I wonder if the enchantment on this book is sophisticated enough to parse the majority of what I'm telling it. Probably not.

"If the blood isn't the same, and the mind isn't the same, how can identity be proven?" the book writes back. "The only thing that would be the same is the soul, then."

"Yes," I reply. "And general mental patterns, behavioral trends. I generally had these journals run a personality test to verify that I at least thought like me."

"You created other diaries like this?"

"In different forms, yes," I write. "I have no idea how many. I am quite a paranoid person, especially after I realized I kept forgetting things. Naturally I put safeguards on them to ensure that my secrets did not fall into the wrong hands."

"Do you recognize the name on my cover?" the book writes.

"T. M. Riddle? Yes, it's Tom Marvolo Riddle." I'm suddenly quite certain of the man's middle name. "He told me to come get you. In a manner of speaking."

"He did? You spoke with him?"

"Not exactly. It's… complicated? There was this magic mirror, and effectively the Tom Riddle in my mind showed me this book and indicated that I was to get it. And also that I should kill myself rather than let Dumbledore know what was going on."

There's a pause before the book replies, "Do you generally treat death so casually?"

"Sometimes, yeah. I _am_ immortal, after all. Dying is unpleasant, but coming back to life is trivial. Aside from the part where it made me keep forgetting things. That was something of a drawback."

This isn't just some enchanted journal. Not like technological ones I'd created before. There's enough intelligence in this book to be able to carry on a coherent conversation.

There is an even longer pause, followed by the question, "Can you speak with snakes?"

I stare at the paper thoughtfully. "I don't know," I admit. "I seem to be able to speak with most everything else. How about I go find a snake to chat up and I'll get back to you?"

"Conjure one," the book suggests. "The incantation is ' _Serpensortia_ '. I'm sure you can remember the wand movements."

With a thoughtful 'hmm', I pull out my wand and let my hand move by subconscious knowledge and cast, " _Serpensortia!"_

Magical essence springs from the tip of my wand, rapidly taking shape into the form of a green snake. It turns its head in confusion for a moment, then clamps its fangs down upon my ankle before I can speak or hiss a word.

"Fuck!" I hiss. "You bit me!" I frantically fish around in my pockets for a bezoar.

"Oh… sorry," the snake hisses, releasing me.

My veins burning and growing light-headed, I manage to find the bezoar and swallow it. Laying on my back on the floor, I breathe slowly as the effects of the poison dissipate. I'm always a little surprised when my stupid life-threatening situations wind up not killing me, but it's starting to grow on me.

"Are you alright, Speaker?" the snake asks, slithering up toward my face. "Did I kill you?"

I laugh softly. "Still alive. Why did you bite me?"

"You surprised me," it hisses back.

"By making you exist?" I wonder.

"Yes."

Rolling my eyes, I slowly right myself and return to my seat. "Snake bit me. Good thing I had a bezoar. I'm sure you'll be pleased to note that the first thing I told it in Parseltongue was 'fuck'."

"So you are a Parselmouth," the book writes back.

"You don't have any way of seeing what's going on around you, do you?" I wonder. "You just have to take my word on it?"

"That is correct."

"So you'd have no way to know if I'm lying?" I write. "I could write an affirmative whether it were true or not. Damn, I think I just outsmarted myself."

I can almost imagine the diary rolling his eyes, if he had them. "Tell me. You mentioned Tom Riddle. Elaborate. I don't care how complicated it is. We have all the time in the world."

"There was a mirror hidden in Hogwarts," I write. "The Mirror of Erised. Supposed to show your heart's desire. When I looked into it, I saw four friends, lost and forgotten in lifetimes past."

"Who were these friends?"

"Tom Riddle and Gellert Grindelwald, a Black woman I haven't been able to identify yet, and a house-elf with clothes and a sword."

A long pause. "You kept interesting company. This book belonged to Tom Riddle and contains his memories. My memories."

The obvious dawns on me. This book was Tom's. Tom was my friend. I am not Tom. This book is not my memories. This book is Tom's memories. Sometimes I feel like I utterly fail at logic.

The snake slithers up onto the desk, flicking its tongue at my hands. "You're quite intent upon that white thing."

"Yeah, I'm trying to figure something out," I hiss back. "Do you have a name?"

"Thissa," the snake replies. "You put black liquid on the white thing?"

"That's how I'm talking to my friend here," I say. Tom Riddle's memories? Too coherent to be merely an enchanted item. It's probably more like a droid, or the magical version thereof, that he'd imprinted his memories and thought patterns on. Therefore, that makes it good enough to call a person to me.

Thissa knocks over my inkwell. "I can make black marks on white thing too." It — He? She? — glides through the spreading mess and over the book.

I sigh at her, and smirk. "While I'm sure he'll appreciate, uh, reading snake prints, that's going to make a mess of you."

Words appear on the paper reading, "What was that?"

I grab my pen and manage to scribble, "Snake", before Thissa slides back across the paper and pushes the quill out of my hand.

"You have so little control over your conjurations?" the book writes.

"Thissa," I hiss. "If you behave, I'll make sure you have plenty of rats."

"And warm places to sleep?" Thissa asks.

"Yes."

"Okay," Thissa slithers off the book.

Waving my wand, I mutter, " _Scourgify_." The spilled ink all over the desk and the snake vanishes. I bring out a fresh inkwell, dip my quill again, and write, "I prefer other methods of getting people to do what I want. Like appealing to their own desires."

"You mean bribery," the book writes. "But, this is a snake. One you just conjured. And not a witch or a wizard."

"Snakes are a lot easier to coerce than humans," I write, chuckling as Thissa curls up around my shoulders.

"Still," the book replies. "Conjured objects don't generally last long."

I frown. "Thissa is going to disappear?"

"You named the snake?"

"That's what she called herself!"

"Regardless," the book writes, "Unless she's living off of your own energy like an extension of yourself. In which case, being able to fully control it seems most reasonable."

I run a hand along Thissa's scales. "Why?" I ask.

"It's not a real animal, just a magical construct in the shape of an animal."

"What if it were a fully functional biological organism?" I ask.

Tom Riddle really ought to have included a set of eyes to roll in this book. Maybe a mouth to sigh with. Maybe it's just that some niggling memory of him in the back of my mind, I'm imagining his expressions, his tone of voice. "Even if it were, it's only magic that's holding it together. That's why conjuring food doesn't work."

"Why would someone create living beings just to force them to do what they want for a short time before they vanish?"

"If I were administering a personality test, you would be failing it miserably about now," Tom writes.

"And to think I was looking so promising there for a while," I reply.

"Look, if you want to keep a snake around, just start with a real one," Tom replies. "I'm sure a suitable one can't be hard to find. I could even tell you where you could find a basilisk."

A flash of memory makes me smirk faintly. "I'd just have to remember not to look into those big, yellow eyes?"

"I'm believing this immortality business," Tom writes.

"More importantly, you're apparently my friend's memory. I've heard that my friend is dead. Is there any way to bring you back to life?"

There's a pause, before the words appear, "Human sacrifice."

I sigh. "Is there a second option?"

"Draining off someone's emotions and energy until they die."

"How about a third option?"

"If you're squeamish about killing someone, I'm not sure why I was ever your friend. It doesn't have to be anyone you care about. Even a Muggle would do."

"Sorry, if you'd gotten back to me a few days ago, I could have murdered a rapist for you, provided I wasn't too angry to not just snap his neck in the middle of a Yule party."

"I take that back," Tom comments.

"Seriously though," I write. "Is there a third option?"

"You might try a high-powered ritual," Tom muses. "As much power as you can pour into it. Samhain or Beltane, a circle of seven witches and wizards. At least an animal sacrifice would probably help. You'd have to find someone skilled in ritual magic to work out the details. If it goes wrong or there isn't enough power, someone might still die trying to perform it, generally the leader of the circle."

"Alright. I'll aim for Beltane, then, and see what I can do, provided I don't run across anyone I want dead in the meantime."

"You are a very strange Dark Lord, Lexen-Revan-Harry."

* * *

Outside the window, Ron and Draco are zipping about on brooms in the frigid winds, seeming unbothered by the cold, and throwing snowballs at one another. Better them than me. I don't really care to freeze my tail off, and with my general attempts at flying, I'm usually just happen not to fall off or go crashing into anything. Besides, I have other things to take care of, far from spending my time relaxing and playing games.

I bring out the picture I'd drawn of the Black woman, my past and future wife. It bugs me to no end that other things have come to mind readily but her name still eludes me. It's on the tip of my tongue over and over, but it doesn't quite come.

Lucius and Narcissa are in the parlor sorting through mail, Narcissa reading a letter and Lucius writing something on a roll of parchment. Lucius tenses a little, and inclines his head toward me, saying, "Good day, my lord."

I nod to him. "All well here?"

"Quite so," Lucius says.

"I was wondering—" I begin.

Thissa darts out from my sleeve and onto the table, making for Lucius' inkwell.

"Thissa, _no_ ," I hiss. "Leave the black liquid alone."

Narcissa jumps back in startlement, and Lucius stares down at the table wide-eyed.

"You're no fun," Thissa says dejectedly, slithering off to explore the room.

I put my face in my hand and grumble, "Please ignore the snake."

Lucius clears his throat, glancing off to where the snake went, turns back to me and says, "Of course, my lord."

"Anyway, I was wondering if one of you could identify this woman for me," I say, placing the picture on the table. "I remember her, but I don't remember her name."

Lucius takes the picture and looks it over thoughtfully, then passes it to Narcissa.

Narcissa puts a finger to her lip. "I believe this may be my great-aunt, Cassiopeia Black." __

_A smiling dark-haired girl. Happy and energetic. Love, affection, warmth. A glowing silver raven. Light in the darkness._

"Cassie…" I whisper, putting my hands on the table and leaning against it dizzily.

"What do you intend with her?" Narcissa asks.

I shake my head, smiling giddily. "I mean her no harm. Actually I'd like to help her however I can."

"You… cared about her?" Lucius says disbelievingly.

"Very much so," I breathe. "It's… complicated, and I don't know what she might remember." She certainly would have remembered Voldemort, that's for sure, but in what context, I have no idea.

Narcissa says quietly, "Maybe the world would have gone differently if you'd had a family."

I laugh softly. "Of that I have no doubt. Please, tell me, is she still alive? Tell me she's still alive."

"I don't know," Narcissa says. "I'm sorry. I can find out, though. I can check the family tapestry and learn if she's still alive, and ask some people to attempt to discover she may be now."

"Thank you," I say, bowing my head to her.

* * *

"He seems so normal sometimes," Lucius is telling Narcissa.

I don't glance up from reading the book Hermione sent me. Really, what's with the people in this house? Either they don't know that I'm eavesdropping constantly, or they don't care, but it's not like they can't see me sitting here in the same room.

"For his sake and ours, I hope that 'Cassie' is still alive," Narcissa says quietly. "And that she doesn't hate him."

"I never would have thought he was capable of love," Lucius says. "I can only speculate. Perhaps he felt affection for Cassiopeia, but she rejected him, and so he became angry at the world."

Ron and Draco come into the room laughing, trampling snow everywhere and white flakes still sticking to their hair and clothes. "You've been inside reading all day?" Ron asks, coming over to me and looking at my book incredulously.

"I'm not crazy enough to go out in the snow," I reply. "It's fucking _cold_ out there."

"Instead you're curled up in front of the fire _reading_ ," Ron says. "Come on, we're on holiday."

I shrug. "At least I'm not doing homework?"

"Let's play a game, at least," Ron says.

"Sure," I say, putting the book away.

"This I've got to see," Draco says, pulling up a chair to watch.

Ron brings out an Exploding Snap deck and briefly explains the rules to me. I nod and we start playing. I think I'm doing well enough, but then one of the cards suddenly explodes. Jumping in surprise, I reflexively attack the deck. Flaming shreds of cardboard scatter all over the room.

"Harry!" Ron scolds. "You're not supposed to explode the deck."

"It startled me," I say defensively.

"It's Exploding Snap," Ron says. "That's what they do."

Draco seems highly amused, but Lucius is watching us from the other side of the room, trying to appear casual and discreet, and not tense as a spring.

"Let's play something else," I suggest.

Ron brings out a set of Gobstones, sets it up and explains the rules. I nod again and we start playing. The game seems to be going well enough, although I'm terrible at it, until Ron wins a point and one of the stones squirts a putrid liquid into my face. Jumping in surprise, I reflexively attack the table. The surviving marbles scatter all over the room.

"Harry!" Ron exclaims. "You're not supposed to explode the stones."

"It startled me," I say sheepishly.

"It's Gobstones," Ron says in exasperation. "That's what they do."

Fortunately, the liquid vanishes after a few seconds, sparing me the trouble of bringing out my wand and Scourgifying it away.

"What's the point in that?" I grumble. "At least with Exploding Snap I can concede that it's part of the game."

"It's to punish you for losing, I guess," Ron says.

"That's stupid," I say. "Let's play something else."

Ron turns to Draco. "Is there a wizard chess set around here we could use?"

"I'll try not to explode it this time," I add.

Draco just laughs and brings out the game for us. Ron sets it up and explains the rules once more. And then the pieces start arguing with me and criticizing my every move.

"No, you should move me, not him!" a knight argues.

"It's hardly my fault you can't think straight," a rook says.

"You've got entirely the wrong angle on this," a bishop says.

I drum my fingers against the table, staring at them for a minute. They look up at me expectantly. "Are you quite done?" I ask.

"Are you going to move or not?" the queen says imperiously.

"If you guys are done bickering, we can continue this," I say. "Otherwise I'll just sit here and watch you argue and fail to realize we're all on the same side here. It's rather entertaining, you know, but a little counterproductive."

Exploding cards are one thing, but people? People I can handle. Even little metal people. The pieces become a little more cooperative, and while they still give conflicting advice, at least they're actually bothering to give advice and reasoning rather than simply bitching at me. Ultimately I still wind up being outplayed, and Ron takes the victory.

"Good game," I say, smiling at Ron.

Across the room, Lucius visibly relaxes and breathes a sigh of relief.

* * *

While I had heard about house-elves, I didn't quite realize the implications until I sneak into the kitchen early one morning in hopes of getting a snack. While two of the little aliens are cheerfully cooking and cleaning, one of them looks up at me with a glum expression, and his large ears are rumpled as though they've been pressed into the oven or a door.

"Good morning, Master Harry!" the female elf says brightly. "Would sir like something to eat? Tinky doesn't have breakfast ready yet, many apologies!"

"Just a cup of coffee, please," I say.

She gasps in surprise, eyes wide. "Oh!" She quickly gets me my coffee. "Tinky has never heard a wizard say 'please' to a house-elf!"

"Is that considered rude?" I ask. "Sorry, I'm not very familiar with your species."

"Tinky is happy to serve!" she says. "Master Harry doesn't need to say please to us. Master Harry doesn't need to be sorry."

"Well, okay," I say, rather confused. "What are your names? I'm guessing you're Tinky?"

"Yes," she says. "And this is Curry, and that is Dobby." She lowers her voice. "Dobby is rather queer."

"He likes other boy house-elves?"

The three elves all look at me strangely.

"What?" I say innocently.

"Dobby is weird!" Tinky says. "He wants to be paid and have days off. He says bad things and has to punish himself all the time. Tinky isn't like that. Tinky is happy to serve, and Tinky doesn't want Dobby to make her look bad."

Great. Slavery again. I'll have to handle this one delicately. "You don't want days off?"

"What would Tinky do? Tinky wants to work! Tinky wants to make food and keep the house clean. Tinky is happy."

"I guess there's nothing wrong with that," I say, then look down to Dobby. "Dobby, what would you do with days off?"

Dobby's already-large green eyes widen further. "Dobby doesn't know. Dobby wants to relax and have fun. Dobby wants to buy things for himself."

"Master Harry see?" Tinky says. "Dobby is weird!"

"It seems harmless enough to me," I say with a shrug.

"It's not done!" Tinky insists, then shakes her head. "But if a wizard like Master Harry wants to give Dobby what he wants, Tinky can't argue. Tinky still thinks Dobby is weird, though."

"I'll see what I can do," I say. "Dobby, come with me, please."

By this point, Lucius is making his way into the dining area. "Ah, my lord, you are up early." He casts a disdainful look at Dobby, who cowers behind my leg. "I hope my house-elf has not been giving you trouble."

"Not at all," I say smoothly. "In fact, I am interested in purchasing him from you."

"Is that so? "Lucius says, his lips thinning. "Dobby is a bothersome one. I have four other house-elves that are much more well-behaved, if you're interested."

I shake my head. "No, I'd like this one, thank you very much. Although if you believe that he is of inferior quality, then I will expect a discount." I smirk at him.

"Of course, my lord," Lucius says. "In fact, if I need not deal with him again, then I shall give him to you at no charge. The House of Potter will need servants, after all, and if you believe you can handle him, then I shall not argue."

I smile at him. "Agreed."

"Dobby!" Lucius says. "You will obey Harry Potter from now on."

"Yes, sir," Dobby says dubiously, then looks up at me as if wondering what I'm going to do. "Master Harry has orders for Dobby?"

I look down at him with a mischievous grin. "Yes, Dobby. Take the day off."

Dobby stares at me disbelievingly for a long moment, then hugs my leg enthusiastically and disappears. I wonder if Dobby was the strangely-dressed house-elf I saw in the mirror. No, Dobby's eyes are green. That house-elf's eyes were brown. Still, making Dobby happy makes me feel warm inside, and I find myself smiling at the floor, oblivious to Lucius' strange look for a few moments.

"Why did you—" Lucius begins, then shakes his head. "No, I will not question your actions. I am certain that there must be some reasoning for them."

"Question everything," I say. "And don't blindly go along with what you expect."

"I don't even know what to expect any longer."

I flash him a grin. "Good."

* * *

"Now you're being nice to house-elves?" Draco says, plopping himself down across the table from me.

I glance up from the text on conjurations I had borrowed from the Malfoy's not-secret library, well above first-year level. Specifically animal conjuration. I don't understand most of it. My mind isn't really on it, though. There are other thoughts haunting me tonight.

"Why not?" I say. "It doesn't cost me anything."

"But they're servants… oh, right."

"Servants, or slaves?" I ask. "As happy as they are, it doesn't seem like they're being given any choice in the matter. I don't like slavery."

"I don't know what you might do about it, though," Draco says. "It's the way it's been as long as anyone can remember."

"It's not likely to change overnight," I say. "And as romantic as the idea sounds, one person can't change the world by themselves."

"What are you trying to do?" Draco wonders quietly.

"Freedom for all beings," I reply. "Everyone deserves the chance for peace and happiness."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "And you call yourself a Dark Lord?"

I close my eyes and lower my head. "I don't want to have to be a Dark Lord. I don't want to take the chance of anyone else doing it, though. And sometimes the path to change needs to start where things are darkest." I shake my head. "I don't know. In the end, I can't change the world. I can't change people. The only one I can change is myself. And yet sometimes I can convince people to see things differently. The world changes nonetheless."

"You're really not going to start another war, are you?"

"Not if I can help it," I say. "Voldemort was mad. And impatient. He wanted to get everything he wanted right away, and almost destroyed everything he fought for. Even if he or I or anyone else tried to play a war like that, even if one of us _won_ , it would be victory at too high a price."

"How else can you prove your way is the right way?" Draco wonders.

I look up at him and grin crookedly. "By showing it. I don't need violence to prove my way is right. I should not have killed Yaxley. You can't teach a corpse, and making examples only makes people fear you and what you have to say. There's two ways to change the world. The quick route, by violence, by brute strength, by forcing others to do as you wish. And the slow route, by shifting the foundations of society, by compassion, by helping and protecting."

Draco looks at me in confusion. "So you mean to try the second path this time?"

"People make mistakes that they later regret and walk paths that they feel they're trapped on, unable to turn away, and wish they could go back and do things differently. Most people never have the option to do so. Most people never get a second chance."


	9. Secrets and Truths

"Ah, Harry, good to see you," Dumbledore says. "Would you like a truffle?"

"Sure," I say, popping one of the candies into my mouth. I don't know why he called me up to his office just to chat about how my holidays were, but whatever, I guess he seems to think we're friends, and it seems harmless enough. I do make sure to avoid eye contact, though.

"Did you enjoy your holidays with the Malfoys, Harry?" Dumbledore asks.

"Quite a bit," I say brightly. "We had a lot of fun."

"Did you have any parties?"

I nod. "There was a big party the day after we got out of school. Everyone was there."

"Did you get any interesting Christmas presents?" Dumbledore presses.

"An invisibility cloak sent by an anonymous gifter," I reply. "That wouldn't happen to have been you, would it?"

"Quite so," Dumbledore says. "I apologize for having kept it from you. I should have given it to you when you arrived."

I wave my hand and chuckle. "Don't worry about it. I wasn't exactly offended or anything. I was happy to receive it. I don't see much use for it at school, anyway." Not like I needed it to get to the third floor corridor, though it might have helped avoid detection, but I have no dire need to test its defenses right now. Trial and error via repeated death isn't actually all that fun, nor generally necessary.

"That's gracious of you. I would have expected there'd be all sorts of mischief you'd want to get up to, though." Dumbledore's eyes twinkle.

I smirk and don't meet his gaze. "I'm not exactly going to sneak around the school at night just to play pranks on people."

"What led you to the Mirror of Erised, then?"

I shrug. "I wanted to see what was in the third floor corridor. I saw, and decided to leave it alone. I can't be the only one who peeked. You made it rather obvious at the opening feast."

"Wise of you," Dumbledore says. "Did you do anything else fun over your break?"

"Played some games with Ron," I say, then laugh softly. "I was pretty bad at all of them, and I'm not ashamed to admit it."

"Did you do anything with the other children?" Dumbledore asks.

"We performed the Ritual of Concord," I reply, then pause with a touch of surprise. Why did I just say that?

"Did you, now?" Dumbledore says, peering at me intently. "Who was involved?"

"Me, Draco, Ron, Pansy, Blaise, Crabbe, and Goyle," I rattle off quickly before I realize what I'm saying. 

"To what purpose?"

"To cement our friendship," I say firmly. I didn't intend to tell him about the ritual, and I'm pretty sure he must have laced those candies with something to compel me to be truthful, but I certainly have nothing to hide about that, at any rate. And now that I'm aware of it, I'll steer away from giving any direct answers regarding the diary.

"Friendship," Dumbledore repeats.

I smile at him magnanimously, and nod.

"I'm glad that you've found such loyal friends, then," Dumbledore says smoothly.

I consider threatening to skin him alive next time he messes with my mind, but I immediately dismiss that thought. I was angry about it, briefly, but _I am in control_. I'm not about to murder this man in front of me. Not even if part of my mind doesn't really trust him. You know what? Fuck it. After shunting aside anything I actually don't really want him to see, I laugh jovially, take another one of the 'Truth Truffles' and pop it in my mouth, and meet his gaze straight on.

"You worry too much, Headmaster," I say. "It's not like I want to kill anyone, or even hurt anyone if it can be avoided. I don't actually _want_ to be a Dark Lord. I don't want a bloody war and I will do whatever I can to avoid one, but I don't intend to compromise my principles to do it, either. I want to bring an end to slavery and racism. I hope that one day, all beings can live together, free and happy." I chuckle softly. "I once derided it as an impossible dream. Someone told me, if I believe something cannot be done, what hope do I have of accomplishing it?"

"Would you seek to rule over them in the name of the greater good, then?" Dumbledore says, frowning thoughtfully.

"I don't want to rule over anyone," I say. "And there is no such thing as the 'greater good'. There are people. People are what's important. They are wonderful, each of them, with their own hopes and dreams, their own thoughts and feelings. It would be terrible if any of them were to be dismissed out of hand. These are delicious, by the way. You wouldn't happen to have a recipe for them, would you?"

"I'm afraid not," Dumbledore says, then pulls out another bowl of candy from behind the desk, this one filled with peppermints. "Why don't you take a mint or two before you go?"

"That sounds good," I say, grabbing a few and sucking on one of them. "See you later!"

* * *

It's about a week after I return to school that curiosity about the basilisk Tom mentioned gets the better of me. I head to bed after a game of Exploding Snap with Blaise. I've been trying to train myself to control my reflexes so that I can choose how to respond to a perceived threat rather than merely instinctively attacking the source of it. Within the privacy of my bed curtains, I bring out the diary.

"So, tell me about this basilisk," I write.

Thissa had long since disappeared, much to my disappointment. I'd tried conjuring another snake, but it wasn't even the same type, never mind the same snake. I'm convinced that there must be a way, though.

"Ah, I was wondering if you would ask," the book replies. "I'm certain that I don't need to warn you that you will need to be very careful."

I smirk. "Yes, that's kind of a given."

"You will need to make your way to the girls' lavatory on the first floor."

"Okay."

I assume this must be a waypoint in the directions. Obviously there isn't a basilisk in the restroom. Maybe this invisibility cloak will prove useful after all. I mean, I figured it would be useful in combat, but I didn't expect there might be combat in school. I really should know better, for all that I tell people about expectations. You know, maybe it would be best to carry this cloak on me at all times.

After taking a nap, I don my cloak and head out of the Slytherin dormitories after midnight, and make my way upstairs. The loo is flooded, and the sounds of quiet sobbing echo through the room.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me. I didn't mean to intrude, but are you alright?"

The translucent head of a girl emerges from one of the stalls. "Oh! It's a boy. This is a girls' room!"

"Yeah, it is, but I guess you don't really need to use the facilities anymore?"

She pouts. "I spend a lot of time making the toilets overflow and thinking about death."

I blink. "Why?"

"What else am I to do? Nobody wants to spend time with 'Moaning Myrtle'."

"Well, if you really want to spend all your time practicing water control, far be it from me to tell you otherwise," I say with a shrug. "But you don't need to think nobody wants to be around you. I'll be your friend." I grin.

"Really?" Myrtle says, brightening.

"Sure," I say. "I'm particularly sure you'd be a welcome sight in any History of Magic or Defense Against the Dark Arts class."

"Hmm…" Myrtle hmms thoughtfully.

I bring out Tom Riddle's diary and carefully write, "I'm there." I should really invest in a self-inking quill. It's difficult to balance inkwells in some of the strange places I find myself writing. In this case, on a sink.

"Alright, you're going to need to give me control over your body so that I can let you inside."

I stare incredulously at the page, then simply write, "No."

"You want to get inside, don't you?" Tom replies.

"What are you writing there?" Myrtle asks, floating up behind me and peering over my shoulder.

"Magic talking book," I say. "Well. Writing-back book. Whatever."

"Why are you talking to a book in the girls' toilet?"

"A splendid question," I reply with a smirk. "I'd like to know that myself." I write in the book, "I'll resurrect you on Beltane if I can, but there's no way I'm going to let you or anyone else control me."

"My apologies," Tom writes back. "Of course. It was simply the most expedient way to do it."

"Well, if there's another way, tell me or I'll just head back to bed."

"Fine," Tom replies. "You're a Parselmouth, after all. First, you need to find the correct sink and tell it _'open_ ' in Parseltongue."

"Hmm…" I hmm thoughtfully, putting the diary and writing supplies away carefully. "Hey, Myrtle, want to see a magic trick?"

"This is a magic school," Myrtle says, unimpressed.

I address the sink I had been writing on, and say, " _Boska!_ " Spectacularly, nothing happens.

Myrtle raises a ghostly eyebrow. "Was that supposed to do something? What language was that, even?"

"Hmm, actually, I think that was Huttese… Let's try this again. _Susulu!_ " Again, nothing happens.

"I don't see much magic happening here," Myrtle says.

"I know too many languages," I grumble. "Sometimes that's a problem when I'm not looking at something to provide context." Then I notice that the faucet is shaped like a snake. I feel stupid. I hiss, " _Open._ "

This time, the sink moves aside and the wall opens up, revealing a steep passage deep down into darkness. From here, I have no idea how far down it might go.

"Oh, I see!" Myrtle says. "You're going down _there_? Well, good luck!"

"I'm _so_ going to die," I say with a smirk, give a wave, and without further ado, hop in and slide down.

Behind me, Myrtle's voice calls out, "You can keep me company!"

* * *

A dank tunnel stretches on far beneath the school. Upon landing, I stand and bring out my wand, and mutter, " _Lumos_ ," illuminating a vast, shadowed catacomb. How much lies in these depths? Seeing no immediate way up, I decide to explore. I don't like being trapped down here, but there's got to be a way out, if Tom came down here at some point.

A ways down the tunnel, a large, ornate door blocks the way. Carvings of snakes cover the surface. This must be the right way. Rather than try to juggle the diary down here, I approach the door and examine it. There doesn't seem to be any way to open it, from this side at least. Maybe it's like the sink. I hiss, " _Open_." The massive stone doors grind open slowly, clearing the way inside.

In the center of the chamber stands a massive statue of a man who was clearly very humble and modest. After admiring the ostentatious decoration for a minute, I look around for anything that's actually interesting. Side passages wind away from the chamber into empty rooms, or ones filled with poorly-preserved furniture. One room, however, catches my interest.

Shelves line the walls of a library far larger than I had expected to find down here. Ancient books of all shapes and sizes cover the walls, probably magically preserved considering on one wall, I think the spells must have failed, and the books there are decayed and crumbling. I should find a way to construct holocrons with local materials. I'll have to ask Dobby if he can find anything, along with the materials with which I hoped to build a lightsaber that he's tracking down. I could spend years poring over these books just to find anything useful to me. It's not like there's a handy index or anything.

I scan the titles of the books on one shelf. None of them are in modern Basic. Some seem to be High Galactic, and others are probably Mid Galactic Standard. It's a good thing that I know enough languages to be a human protocol droid.

I reach out and pick one of the books off of a shelf. Upon opening it, the book lets out a feral roar, jumps out of my hands, and latches onto my face. I fall over, gripping at the cover with my fingers, trying to pry the 'teeth' out. It's no use, and I black out moments later.

* * *

Well. I got killed by a book. That has to be one of my more embarrassing deaths.

I grab my cloak, head back to the restroom, have a nice conversation with Myrtle, and return to the library. This time, I should really be more careful.

I wonder if I remember any of these books? Maybe I've been down here before. I scan the shelves again, looking to see if I recognize any of the titles. _Grimorium Antiqui_ , _Ars Magicarum_ , _Clavicula Potentiae_ … I pick up those three without incident and keep looking. Upon one shelf, unassuming and bound in sturdy leather, I find a book whose title I definitely recognize. _Codex Veritatum_.

Setting aside the other three books that I'd picked up, I open up the _Codex Veritatum_ and skim through the pages. I can understand the language perfectly well, but the concepts detailed in its pages are… complicated.

"All things always are that ever were," I murmur as I read. "All things are that can be. All things are possible. Therefore, all things are."

The Book of Truths — All things are true. It's a book about alternate universes, I realize. And its contents are way beyond me. With the pile of books in hand, I leave the library, all thought of the basilisk forgotten. This is far more interesting.

* * *

I'm tired the next morning, having stayed up entirely too late being unable to resist reading the treasures I'd brought back from the secret library under Hogwarts, and I don't even have the excuse of History of Magic this morning to slack off and take a nap. I really don't want to explain to Snape just what I was doing awake half the night.

"Draco," I say quietly as we're getting dressed. "Cover me in Potions today, will you? At least make sure nothing blows up."

"That's what I do every class, Harry," Draco points out.

"Well, yeah, but I'm afraid I'll lop a finger off or something if I'm not careful."

"What were you doing all night?"

"Oh, I dug out some reading material from a secret library I found in the school," I say offhandedly. "You can take a look at it later."

"Wait, really?"

I pull out one of the books and hold it in the air. "Yup! Got three books here you can look at." I am not letting anyone look at the _Codex Veritatum_ just yet.

"We can hear you, you know," Blaise says.

"Dibs one the third one," Theodore adds.

"All this excitement over books?" Ron says.

I roll my eyes. "If I were saying anything I didn't want you to hear, I wouldn't say it in front of you."

"I'm not so sure about that sometimes," Blaise says with a smirk.

"Anyway, if you can read these ancient arcane tomes, by all means," I say, sliding one over to Blaise and another to Theodore.

Blaise looks at a random page and groans. "Oh, Merlin, it's In Latin!"

"Of course it is," Draco says with a smirk. "You aren't going to find ancient books written in modern English."

"Guess you'll just have to learn Latin, then," I say. Apparently the local name of the language. Blaise and Theodore groan and hand the books back to me.

"Where did you get this, anyway?" Ron asks.

"Somewhere in the lower dungeons," I say. "I'm pretty sure I could find the place again."

"And you know Latin?" Ron wonders.

Well, that's going to take some explanation. "I think I have some sort of innate talent that lets me understand and speak almost every language. I've yet to run across any I couldn't, at least."

"That's got to be useful," Draco says. "So, anything? Like French, Russian, Gaelic? Can you speak Mermish and Parseltongue too?" He should know that I speak Parseltongue. He's probably just playing along.

"Probably," I say, putting the books away. "We'd best get going. Don't want to miss breakfast."

We head down into the Great Hall and take our seats at the Slytherin table. Hermione is already there, but she seems to be paying more attention to a book than her food.

"Hey, Hermione," Blaise says. "Do you know Latin?"

Hermione looks up at him with some confusion. "Not really. Why?"

"Why would anyone want to learn Latin?" Pansy wonders. "It's hard, and nobody even speaks it anymore."

"You know most of our spells are in Latin, don't you?" I point out.

Pansy frowns. "But, we can cast them without knowing what they mean."

"Knowing what they mean would probably help, though," Hermione says, suddenly excited, followed shortly by panic. "Oh! I've already filled out my study schedule, but if I tried to fit Latin in there I'd have to rewrite it all!"

Ron groans. "Now look what you did. You put ideas in her head."

* * *

Draco cracks open a chicken's egg and empties it into our cauldron messily, getting egg white all over his fingers. "Ugh."

"Mr. Malfoy, the yolk must remain intact," Snape says, vanishing the contents of the cauldron. "Try again." He casts a disdainful glance to me. "Mr. Potter, regardless of your utter ineptitude at the subject, you are required to do at least some of the work."

I nod, and say to Draco, "Let me take a shot at the egg."

"You certainly can't do any worse," Draco says, pushing the carton over to me.

With Snape gazing down at me like a vulture just waiting for me to do something wrong, I crack the egg against the side of the cauldron and plop its contents inside, a little less messily than Draco, at least.

"Crack the egg on a bowl, not the cauldron, and then empty the bowl into the cauldron if it is satisfactory," Snape says, vanishing the contents again. "Shell fragments will contaminate the potion."

I sigh softly, grab another egg, and do it again, this time into the bowl. After examining it to make sure the yolk is intact and there's no shards, I dump it into the cauldron.

"You broke the yolk transferring the egg into the cauldron," Snape says, waving his wand over the cauldron to vanish the would-be potion one more time. "Try again."

"Why does the yolk need to be intact, anyway?" I grumble.

Fizzling sounds interrupt the disparaging remark Snape was doubtless about to utter, and a putrid magenta cloud wafts up from one of the Gryffindor cauldrons. A girl backs away hurriedly, waving her hand in front of her face.

"Miss Dunbar," Snape says. " _What_ did you put in your cauldron?"

"Um… tofu, sir," the girl says sheepishly.

"Might I ask precisely _why_ you put tofu in the cauldron?"

"Because I'm vegan."

Snape stares at her incredulously. "Five points from Gryffindor. And if you continue to be squeamish about the potions ingredients, your grade for this class is likely to be 'T' for the next five years."

The girl makes a soft whimpering sound and looks back at the violently-pink goo in her cauldron.

After I carefully place the sixth egg into the cauldron, Snape looks over and inspects my handiwork. "Adequate," he says. "Barely."

No points are forthcoming for this adequate potion. I just hope the rest of the recipe goes well. I don't want to crack anymore eggs today. Draco continues with the other ingredients, adding them to the cauldron very carefully.

Snape turns and addresses the class. "Be glad that these are merely chicken eggs. Although they have their uses in potions, the eggs of mundane creatures will not explode should you mishandle them. The same cannot be said of some magical creatures." He gives a glare over to the Gryffindor girl. "And while there are acceptable substitutes to some materials, _tofu_ is not one of them."

Draco whispers to me, "I thought you said you'd be extra clumsy at this class you're already clumsy at today?"

"I don't really consider five 'inadequate' eggs a shining success."


	10. Return to Spring

That Thursday, a tawny post owl swoops in at breakfast and drops a letter beside my plate, fortunately being polite enough not to just dump it in my food. I set aside my fork and open it up.

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_You will be pleased to learn that I have successfully located Cassiopeia Black. She had been living in France up until now, but be assured that that situation has been rectified. You may come and see her at Malfoy Manor at your soonest convenience._

_Sincerely, Narcissa Malfoy_

"Who's the letter from, Harry?" Ron wonders, peering over.

"Not here," I whisper.

Blaise quirks the corner of his mouth. He doesn't miss a thing, but fortunately he has the discretion not to push me on it in the Great Hall. I pass the note to Draco next to me.

Draco reads it over, and murmurs, "Merlin, I was right."

"You're possibly causing more of a scene by trying to keep whatever this is quiet," Theodore says. "You might as well out with it, or at least give a plausible lie."

I sigh. "Draco, you tell them."

"My mother found an illegitimate daughter of Sirius Black, around our age," Draco says quietly. "Her name is Cassiopeia, and she's been living in France. I wonder if she's started at Beauxbatons yet?"

He's inferred a lot from a few words. That's fine by me. Although I wonder, why do I remember her so strongly as a young woman? Did I spend a lot of time in the past, or is something else at work here? Something is niggling in the back of my mind. I'm a Time Mage. I've certainly changed my own age, if indirectly, and have definitely been ages I shouldn't be. Why not? I can't die and I can send people back in time. There is no real reason to think it's impossible. And I would hate, after finding her, for her to merely die of old age.

Merely thinking about my past doesn't restore memories. Reading my journals helped the most — hence why I'd hoped to have found one — but acting, doing, being, living, that brings out the strangest things sometimes.

* * *

That weekend, I take the opportunity to head over to Malfoy Manor. There, I see her. Cassiopeia Black. _Cassie._ She's old, older than I recall, but she's still beautiful. The years weigh heavy upon her, and no smile graces her face.

"I'm surprised that you asked me to return to the country, after all this time," Cassie says. "I suppose it's just as well that I see my family one more time before I die."

Narcissa says wistfully, "Yes, it's good to see you again. When I last saw you, I was but a little girl, getting ready to go to Hogwarts for the first time."

"I'd like to discuss something in private, Cassie," I say, then clear me throat. "I mean. Lady Cassiopeia."

Cassie laughs softly. "No one has called me Cassie in a very long time. It makes me feel young again. It's quite alright, Mr. Potter. You may call me Cassie."

"Then call me Harry," I say with a grin.

Narcissa gives me that look she always gives me when I say something that 'proves' I'm Voldemort, and leads us off to the library where we might speak undisturbed.

"What is this about, Harry?" Cassie wonders. "My niece told me about a young boy who wanted to meet me, but she was vague about who. You are the one, then, I presume?"

"Funny you should mention feeling young again," I say. "I believe I have a way to do just that."

"What, have you somehow gotten your hands on a Philosopher's Stone?"

I smirk. "Well, I do know where one can be found, but that's not what I mean."

"Then what?"

I take a deep breath. "This is going to take some explaining. And what I'm going to explain to you here, I haven't told to anyone else. You see, I have innate Time powers. I really don't know the limits of them! I have tested them very little, and they keep surprising me."

"Is that so?" Cassie says, frowning thoughtfully for a moment, then immediately brightening. "Well, clearly, they must be tested! This could be an unprecedented field of study. If I had the… Time to study it."

I smile widely. "I believe — no, I am _absolutely certain_ that I can restore your youth. Unfortunately, it would also certainly take more magical energy than I could expend at once to do so. I've wound up falling unconscious for days when pushing my powers too hard."

"Then do it a little at a time, or as a ritual," Cassie suggests.

"I don't think I'd be able to control it finely enough to do it in smaller increments," I say. "Or that even that amount wouldn't be too much for me. But what would a ritual like this entail?"

"I don't know how much you've learned about rituals, but they'd be able to boost the available energy for a magical effect," Cassie explains. "Multiple people, special days of the year and times of day, runes, certain implements depending on the type of magic being used, all can give extra bonuses. In this case, Imbolc, at dawn, would probably be the best time to do it, the point in the year when winter is turning to spring, when the world is rejuvenated and made young again. As accessories, crocuses, bowls of birch wood filled with water."

I blink at her. "You clearly know a lot about magic and rituals, to have come up with this all off the top of your head."

Cassie chuckles. "I have spent my entire life researching this, and my findings have been ignored, by and large. It would be a lovely thing if all of that work and study were to be finally useful for something. Even still, there are many factors that would make this sort of ritual difficult to get results from. It has many things working against it. For one thing, I believe a ritual of this nature would actually be more effective if performed by children," Cassie says. "But the leader of the circle would need to have skill in magic that few children would have."

"Good thing I'm not most children, then," I say with a grin. "Also, I performed the Ritual of Concord with six other children on Yule. Would that help?"

"Very much so," Cassie agrees. "Hmm. I will need to work out the appropriate combination of runes. This is probably the most difficult part for many wizards. Runes can interact in strange ways, and the larger the runic arrangement, the more complex, increasing exponentially." She taps her lip thoughtfully. "Do you know what the color of your individual magical effect is?"

"Blue," I reply.

"What shade of blue?"

"… Blue."

Cassie sighs and rolls her eyes. "Fine. Blue. Can you _Multicorfors_ something to the exact shade of blue?"

I pull out my wand and wave it. " _Multicorfors_." My hands promptly turn blue. "Um. I meant to do that."

" _Finite Incantatem_ ," Cassie mutters offhandedly, and my skin returns to its normal color. "Right. Seven candles in that shade of blue." She nods. "There's one more thing that would further increase the available energy for the ritual, and that's being performed on a node. Hogwarts is on a strong node, but I would prefer this ritual to be performed in secret, so that only the Malfoys, you and your friends, know exactly what happened."

"What about the Chamber of Secrets?" I ask.

"You know where the Chamber of Secrets is?" Cassie asks, raising an eyebrow, then shakes her head. "Regardless, no. We need a place above ground, where the sun can be seen, preferably with vegetation around. I'll think of something."

"Alright," I say. "I'll trust you know what you're doing more than me, certainly."

Cassie chuckles. "And I'll trust that you have the power you claim to and a modicum of skill to be able to follow the ritual I will come up with. You have raw, unfocused power. It's my own life that's at stake here, and if this doesn't work, it's not truly your own fault."

"I'm sure it'll work," I assure her.

"You have a lot of faith in me, for all that we just met," Cassie says, cocking her head at me. "It begs the question of why you wanted to contact _me_ specifically with this idea. Was it because you'd heard of my research and knew I was the best bet for designing a ritual like this?"

"It's complicated," I say evasively.

"Come now," Cassie says. "You don't get to call me in here like this, offer me a chance at potentially eternal life, and then dismiss my questions with 'it's complicated'."

"You will have been my wife in an alternate future," I say quickly.

Cassie blinks at me. "Okay. That wasn't so complicated."

"Well, I wouldn't want to—"

Cassie waves a hand. "Oh, do relax. Now at least I don't have to wonder at your motivations. All my life I've dealt with, you know…"

"Slytherins?" I supply.

"Exactly," Cassie says with a sigh. "I don't know if we'd wind up together again, although that you went to the trouble of seeking me out and trying to help me, I can imagine you must have cared for me very much."

"I'd be happy even if we didn't, just knowing you were alive and well."

"But do you mean it, or are you just saying that because you think that's what I want to hear?"

I grin. "Can it be both?"

She rolls her eyes.

"At any rate, I have amnesia and don't even actually remember you much," I say.

Cassie smirks. "Suddenly this all sounds so much less romantic."

"Sorry," I say brightly.

* * *

"Harry, my boy," Dumbledore says. Why does he keep wanting to interrogate me in his office? "I hear you weren't at Hogwarts this weekend."

"I was not," I say. "I was unaware there were any rules against going outside the school. I didn't miss any classes or anything."

"Generally not," Dumbledore says. "After all, only third year students and up are allowed to visit Hogsmeade on certain weekends. Where did you go?"

I snort softly. "Malfoy Manor. It's like a second home to me. I wasn't exactly in any danger there."

"Might I ask what you were doing there?"

I flash a grin at him. "I met a lovely girl by the name of Cassiopeia Black. I didn't know Sirius Black had a daughter. She's been living in France. I'd imagine plenty of people went to France to get away from the last war. I hope she will be able to come to Hogwarts in the upcoming year." All true statements. They just have nothing to do with one another.

"Is that so?" Dumbledore says, his eyes twinkling, but I don't look at them. "Well, I daresay it'll be good for you to have another friend around your age, then."

"She seemed very friendly," I say. "And smart and clever, about as interested in books as Hermione. I wonder if they'll compete against one another, or team up as the most terrifying duo of bookworms ever to grace the Hogwarts library. They'd be quoting _Hogwarts: A History_ at everyone within earshot."

"Hermione having a friend who can appreciate her habits would be good," Dumbledore says. "I'm glad that she has found some friends, already. I had feared that, given her background, she would be shunned, particularly in the House that the Sorting Hat placed her in."

"I've made a point that I wouldn't gladly tolerate racism," I say.

"As for your friend, I'm afraid you won't be seeing her much until spring break," Dumbledore says. "I would appreciate if you didn't sneak out of the school again."

"What, not even for Imbolc?"

Dumbledore sighs. "You realize the old rites are dangerous, don't you?"

"It's a _holiday_ ," I say. "People get together and have fun. Imbolc is about celebrating the coming of spring. Surely that can't be a bad thing?"

"Perhaps not, but what it represents to purebloods…"

"You happily accept Muggleborns and seek to protect Muggles," I say. "Is it not also racism and _religious persecution_ to discourage and obstruct the practice of someone's religion? Would you force a Jewish student to eat bacon? Would you prevent a Muslim student from observing Ramadan?"

"I hadn't expected you to do so much research on religion," Dumbledore says, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course I did," I say. "Did you think the pagan customs were the only thing I ever looked at?"

"I am not certain that we have many Jewish or Muslim students, if any."

"Did you ever think to ask?" I point out. "Anthony Goldstein is Jewish." Not that I know him very well, or for that matter, know why I know that, but I've long since stopped questioning the random memories that pop up.

"I stand corrected," Dumbledore says. "I must say, I am truly embarrassed at my ignorance."

"Thanks to the timing of the school holidays, you cut short his Hanukkah."

"You put me in a difficult position, Harry," Dumbledore says. "I cannot change the school for the sake of a few students."

I pin him with a hard look. "And why not? If the freedom of even _one person_ is trodden upon needlessly, that's too many. You do it out of ignorance, no blame can be placed upon you. You do it fully knowing what you're doing, that becomes negligence if not outright malice."

"Are you suggesting that I'm _malicious_ toward students who are different?" Dumbledore says.

"I'm suggesting that you didn't know what you were doing," I say. "And if you continue doing so, knowing full well what you were doing, then it will be malicious."

"Harry…" Dumbledore says with a sigh. "This does not reflect well upon you. If not only do you declare yourself a Dark Lord, but you're known to be performing dark rituals…"

He's not Sith enough — not _Slytherin_ enough — to appreciate the value in people being grateful to him for accepting them. What does he really want? No, he's more of a Jedi — a Gryffindor. He wants to do what's right and make people happy, even though he's very, very bad at it sometimes. If the House system is useful for one thing, it's for giving a loose grasp of a person's motivations, but I should remember to be careful about my expectations, even if it might be good for a general gauge. Not every Sith is as dark as you'd believe, and not every Jedi is as light as they'd wish.

I fold my arms across my chest. "Then what? And anyway, celebrating a holiday does not equate to performing dark rituals. Samhain is still celebrated at Hogwarts, even under a slightly different form." I sigh. "You know, I could just sneak out anyway. Maybe I shouldn't even talk to you about this. They try to keep it all a secret for fear of persecution. But you know what? _I'll_ speak out. Because this isn't right. Nobody should have to feel as though their customs aren't valid, that their beliefs aren't respected. Maybe you see little dark wizards. Turn that around. They're _children_. Their path isn't set yet. They're children who are miserable that they can't spend their holidays with their families."

Dumbledore puts his face in his hands. "I will need to think about this."

"Then think about the faces of children. Do you want to see them frowning or smiling?"

* * *

A few days pass, and Dumbledore stands up at the head table in the Great Hall before dinner, and clears his throat. "It has come to my attention that we, the staff of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, have been remiss in recognizing the various faiths of our students. The people at this school come from all backgrounds and all walks of life. Let us celebrate our differences rather than let them divide us."

There's a smattering of applause.

"After some discussion amongst the staff, we have decided to rectify that situation," Dumbledore says. "To that end, I will announce that we will provide transportation to any student who wishes to spend holidays with their families. Upcoming holidays include," he looks down to read from what appears to be a calendar. "Tu Bishvat on the 20th, Isra and Mi'raj on February 1st," he valiantly attempts to pronounce, "Imbolc on February 1st, Candlemas on February 2nd, the Chinese New Year on February 4th, Vasant Panchami on February 8th, and Valentine's Day on February 14th."

The applause is much more vigorous now.

"We will provide opportunities to make up missed classwork," Dumbledore adds.

The applause dies down, and over at the Gryffindor table, the Weasley twins go, "Awww."

"Harry," Draco whispers. "What did you _say_ to him?"

"What makes you think this is my doing?" I reply.

"It's weird, so you must be responsible for it somehow," Theodore points out.

"Hey, I can't be behind _every_ weird thing that happens in my general vicinity," I say.

"I'm not so sure about that," Theodore says.

* * *

"Seriously, though, what did you say to Dumbledore?" Draco presses once we're alone in our dorm with the other boys, not about to let the subject drop.

"I told him it was the right thing to do and it would make the children happy," I reply with a shrug.

"What," Draco says. "But… I… You can't possibly be serious."

"What did I say," Theodore says. "Had to be your fault."

"Not going to complain, though," Blaise says. "Exploding Snap?"

"Sure," I say, going over to play with him. Training. It's training. Controlled battlefield responses. Really. "There are many things diplomacy can do. For everything else, there's explosions."

Ron asks, "Is it really that weird, what Dumbledore said today?"

"There's times certain people, like Dumbledore, like to pretend the old pagan traditions don't exist," Draco says. "They pretend very, very hard. If you asked them outright, they'd tell you there's no pagans at Hogwarts. If you asked if there's Jews, or Catholics, or anything, they might even say something ridiculous like, 'oh, of course, Hogwarts is a multicultural school. I imagine there's people of every religion there! Except pagans. I can't imagine there being any pagans there.'"

"I certainly hadn't realized it beforehand," Ron says.

"So even getting the tiniest bit of acknowledgment and consideration in a long list of holidays is… kind of shocking, really," Draco says.

A card explodes under my hand, and a weak burst of electricity flickers from my fingertips.

"Not literally, Harry, not literally," Blaise says.

"Did you somehow put Dumbledore under a Confundus Charm?" Draco asks. "The Imperius Curse? _Something?_ "

"If you want someone to do what _you_ want, you have to understand what _they_ want. Learn what motivates people," I say, brushing off my hands and returning to the game. Concentrating on the game while carrying on a conversation is an interesting exercise. "Everyone thinks they're doing the right thing. No one thinks they're doing _wrong_ unless they're mad or they've been forced into it."

"People have awfully different ideas of what the 'right thing' is sometimes," Ron says.

"People have different motivations. Different things are important to different people," Another card explodes, and I jump out of my seat a little.

"You're getting distracted," Blaise says. "What, can't talk and play?"

I grumble. "Totally can." I give the cards a withering glare, and try again.

"So how do you guess, then?" Draco asks.

"You don't guess," I say. "And you can't just put yourself in their shoes, either. That'd be in their situation, but with _your_ motivations." I shake my head. "It's diplomacy."

"Explosive diplomacy?" Blaise asks.

"Most problems can be solved with a sufficiently large explosion," I comment.

* * *

As we ride away from Hogwarts on the Friday before Imbolc, emotions are running high. A fourth-year girl is practically in tears.

"The long winter has ended," says one of the older boys. "Spring is finally upon us."

When we arrive at Malfoy Manor, Lucius greets us incredulously. "I had heard word, but until I saw you here, I had not quite believed it myself."

"So far as I can tell, Harry just cast a Confundus Charm on the universe," Draco says.

I smirk and fold my arms across my chest. "I put Dumbledore into a position from which he could not back down."

Draco rolls his eyes. "And you call it _diplomacy._ "

"You can win a war without ever raising a wand to cast a curse," I say. "So what's to eat? I've had nothing but Cauldron Cakes since we left Hogwarts. How about some pancakes?"

"You can't have pancakes for dinner, Harry," Draco says.

"Why not?" I say with a grin.

Lucius sighs. "I hope you took a nap on the train as well. We have much to prepare, if we are to be ready for the ritual Cassiopeia has devised."

"What ritual is it?" Draco asks. "Will I be leading the circle again?"

"No," Lucius says. "Mr. Potter will."

"Harry?" Draco says in confusion, looking over at me, then his eyes widen. "Ohh." I think he must forget sometimes, while I'm at school and acting normal, that he thinks I'm Voldemort reborn.

"Cassiopeia will explain the ritual when everyone arrives after midnight, so be certain to get some rest before then," Lucius says.

After getting something in my stomach, I go to sleep for a few hours. While I'm confident in the ritual, my life and Cassie's are both on the line here. My stomach flutters, both excited and nervous.

"Wake up, Master Harry!" Dobby says, standing on the end of my bed. "Dobby doesn't want him to miss his ritual."

"I'm starting to hate these morning rituals," Ron grumbles as we gather together in the dark before dawn.

"You just hate waking up in the morning," Draco says.

Cassie finds us loitering in the corridor and says, "Come. We're setting up in the garden. The other children are arriving."

"I hope Crabbe and Goyle aren't almost late again," Draco mutters as we follow after Cassie.

Rather than being late, Crabbe and Goyle are already there waiting for us. Abraxas Malfoy is seated off to the side, looking even worse off than he was before.

"You can reconsider still, Abraxas," Cassie says quietly. "We can still—"

Abraxas weakly waves a hand in between coughing fits. "No. I am too ill. I would not survive this ill-advised ritual."

"You don't know that," Cassie argues.

"And that's assuming it works at all," Abraxas says. "None of you have any idea what you're doing with magic like this. You risk more than just yourself here."

Lucius notices my look of concern and says quietly, "His condition has worsened considerably in the past month. And he has been taking it out on everyone in earshot. Forgive an old man his indiscretion."

I frown, nodding slightly. Pansy and Blaise come out into the garden and take their positions with the rest of us.

"The children will not be harmed," Cassie says in exasperation. "I have placed the burden upon myself and Harry in this."

"You don't know that," Abraxas retorts. "And do you think Mr. Potter appreciates having his life risked so casually?"

"I can speak for myself, thank you," I put in. "And yes, absolutely. Even still, I would not ask the others to assist against their own choice or without full knowledge of what we're doing."

"I've a good question, then," Blaise says. "What _is_ going on here?"

"I was getting to that," I say, and nod to Cassie.

"Welcome, children," Cassie says. "We have not met, but my name is Cassiopeia Black, aunt to many of you, by however many generations removed. Today, on this morning, we will be attempting perform a new ritual that I have designed, based upon a lifetime of research. I call it, the Ritual of Renewal. With it, we may turn back the hands of time to restore the youth of the subject it is to be performed upon. As the creator of the ritual, I offer myself up as a test subject."

"Do you think this can really work?" Draco asks, wide-eyed.

"I would not suggest it if I did not," Cassie replies. "I can make no guarantees, despite all my research."

"If this works, it could usher in a new golden age of magic," I say. "No one need ever die simply from living too long. No one need ever watch their friends and family grow old."

"You're looking for immortality," Draco says quietly.

"I'm looking for immortality for _everyone_ ," I say with a grin.

"I like this new Dark Lord," Ron says.

"You expect anyone to believe that?" Abraxas croaks at me. "Altruism?"

I roll my eyes. "Obviously not _everyone_ -everyone. That would be kind of a tall order. But immortality for some? Certainly. I doubt anyone's going to go to the trouble of performing this ritual for anyone they don't like, and neither Cassie nor I will be sharing the details of it with just anyone, either."

"Well, you're making a good case for being your friend," Blaise says brightly. "You know, assuming this works."

"If Harry says it'll work, it'll work," Pansy says.

As we go to set up the ritual, Lucius is practically holding his breath the entire time. I help Cassie draw the runes in blue chalk, memorizing every detail, and we fill the bowls with water, arrange the flowers, and light the candles.

Cassie hands me a parchment. "Which of these languages do you understand?"

I glance it over. There is the same passage, in four different languages. "All of them."

Cassie raises an eyebrow. "All of them? Really?"

"He has a rare magic talent that lets him understand languages," Ron says.

"I see," Cassie says. "Well, in that case, use the bottom one."

"The grammar's a bit off, and this word should be… hmm," I say, poking at it thoughtfully and bringing out a quill.

Cassie smirks. "By all means, adjust it, if you think you have a better grasp of Sanskrit than me."

"What difference would there be in effect by what language is used?" I ask.

"Older languages are generally stronger," Cassie says. "But they may be difficult to attain sufficient precision, in part because of loss in knowledge of details of the language, especially the pronunciation." She looks to me curiously. "Perhaps, with that strange talent of yours, you will not have that problem. There isn't enough time to go into a lengthy discussion on the matter right now. We have a ritual to prepare for."

I've relied on instinct so far to get my power to do what I want it to. Pure will, unfocused and uncontrolled. That only works so far. Perhaps spells and rituals are the way to refine it? What would the wars of the Jedi and Sith have been like if they had this sort of fine control over the Force?

Every word memorized, rune drawn, every accessory placed, every wizard positioned. Finally, as the sky grows light on the horizon, we're ready. Cassie sits on the ground in the center of the circle, and me and my friends surround it. As the dawn breaks over the horizon, I recite my incantation. Energy rushes up through my body, connecting the children in the circle, intersecting upon the witch in the center. The water in the bowls ripples from unseen motion. The flames of the candles shift to blue. The runes glow and spark with electricity.

Cassie's body shimmers and changes, growing smaller, years shedding off of her like water through a drain. Too far, too fast, the Force swirls out of control. The air crackles in a storm of power. No! I am the eye of the storm! I am in control! The Force falters and quakes. Within the circle, Cassie shifts rapidly between an old crone, an adult woman, a little girl, and a baby screaming in a loose pile of robes.

Lucius takes a step toward the circle, but his father takes a hold of his arm and pushes him aside. Abraxas moves faster than I had thought the ill old man was capable of, puts his arms around Draco, and tries to drag him out of the circle. But before they can even move a meter, the Force suddenly stabilizes, flowing through Abraxas as well. The dynamic has shifted, and the circle of seven with an eighth in the center, has become nine.

The Force settles over use, smoothly washing through us, and leaving Cassie a ten-year-old girl in baggy robes, sitting in the center of the circle, a little dazed. Draco looks over his shoulder at the young blond boy hugging him from behind. Abraxas got caught in the ritual too.

"It… it actually worked?" Abraxas says, stunned, but not releasing Draco yet.

"But what went wrong?" Cassie wonders quietly. "My calculations were—"

"We miscalculated," I say, flopping down onto the ground cross-legged. "And I think I know where." When Sardill showed me the vision of the future that might have been, he showed that version of me involved in a Time Magic ritual, but that one used a circle of nine. "We needed a circle of nine, not seven. It immediately stabilized when Abraxas came up and there were nine people in the circle."

"But I wasn't a part of the circle," Cassie says.

"Anyway, it did work, and I know what went wrong, so adjustments can be made."

"Not to complain or anything, but," Draco says, "my grandfather looks like he could be my little brother now."

"And I still have dragon pox," Abraxas says with a smirk.

"Isn't that contagious?" Pansy says uneasily.

"I was already well past the point of being contagious," Abraxas says. "Do relax, Miss Parkinson."

"I think it should go without saying that I don't want the existence of this ritual or what has transpired here today to be widely known," I say.

Cassie nods, and smiles widely. "Hello! I am Sirius Black's illegitimate daughter, Cassiopeia Black, and totally not the old woman, Cassiopeia Black, who sadly passed away quietly in her home in France."

Blaise barks a laugh. "Well, if you're going to be a little bastard, why not go all out and be a half-blood too?"

Cassie giggles. "Sure, why not?"

"I fear I did not expect that I would wind up having to think about this," Abraxas says, finally releasing Draco and sitting down next to him. "But it looks like Draco has a little brother. Who, of course, he always had and none of you will be surprised to see." He looks pointedly to the other children. "Perhaps I was kept inside for much of the time for being sickly."

"Maybe we thought you were a Squib," Draco says with a grin.

Abraxas chuckles softly. "I suppose if Cassiopeia can be a half-blood, then I can be a suspected Squib. Naturally, my parents, Lucius and Narcissa, will be ecstatic when I receive my Hogwarts letter and it becomes clear that I have aptitude for magic after all."

"Neither was I prepared for this turn of events," Lucius says. "But I am glad to see you cheerful again… son."

"Not to worry," Abraxas says. "I am still unconvinced of the veracity of this ritual. After all, we have yet to see if the change shall be permanent or without undue side effects."

"Of course," Lucius says with a faint smile.

"Oh, don't be so pessimistic!" Cassie says, bouncing to her feet. "We're going to Hogwarts! And it's a beautiful day! Let's go play!" She skips off across the garden.

"But we're not— really— we don't have to—" Abraxas clambers to his feet and trips over his oversized robes. "Can we at least put on some appropriate attire first?"


	11. Perspective

"This is remarkable," Abraxas says, stretching out his little fingers before his face.

Cassie glances up from her Arithmancy notes with a grin. After a few hours of running around outside in the brisk February air, playtime gave way to a study session in the library. "We are going to have _so_ much fun, Brax."

Abraxas sighs. "I cannot keep up with your 'fun', Cassiopeia. And kindly do not call me 'Brax'. I do not comprehend why you must continue this charade even in private."

"A few reasons, I'd guess," I say, holding my palm up. "For one, getting into the habit to avoid slipping from your role. For another, that what you think of as private may not always be as private as you'd hope."

"This is my own home," Abraxas grumbles.

"Assumptions and expectations can lead one to trouble," I say. "Do you truly wish the events of this morning to become public knowledge?"

Abraxas pauses, then shakes his head. "You are right, of course. I would be hard-pressed to explain it, and I will not divulge the nature of this new secret ritual of yours."

"Think about everything you did wrong in life, Abraxas," Cassie says, suddenly quietly serious for a moment. "Think about what you might do with the chance to live your life the way you wish you could have lived it, if you had known then what you know now."

"I have no great regrets in my life," Abraxas says. "But that does not mean I cannot appreciate the chance for a future."

I chuckle. "I wonder how Dumbledore would react if he found out."

Abraxas sighs and rolls his eyes. "He would probably prattle off something about death being the next great adventure or some such rot like he always does."

"That's all well and good for him," Cassie says. "But _I'm_ not done living yet."

"While I was willing to face my impending death with dignity, I was hardly suicidal," Abraxas says. "Nor was I about to argue that dying is a good thing somehow."

"So, you say Time Magic works best with a circle of nine," Cassie says. "How do you know? And why didn't you mention this sooner?"

"I forgot," I say.

"Right, that," Cassie says.

"Just to fill you in," I say to Abraxas. "I'm not really eleven."

"So I gathered." He bows his head. "Regardless, whether it was intentional or not, I owe you my life and my future, and I will do whatever is in my power to assist you."

"Thank you," I say quietly, inclining my head toward him.

"I will, however, pass along the position of paterfamilias to Lucius," Abraxas says. "I will not have him deprived of his inheritance by happenstance of a magical accident."

"Hmm." Cassie scribbles at her parchment distractedly. "Do you really have a talent that enables you to speak other languages, or have you simply learned a lot of them?"

"I don't remember," I say.

"So how many languages _do_ you know? Wait, don't answer that, you don't remember."

"Exactly," I reply with a smirk.

"Well, we've already got English, obviously, Latin, Ancient Greek, and Sanskrit covered, at least," Cassie says.

"So, do fill me in on this memory business, if you would," Abraxas says.

"Amnesiac time traveler," Cassie says.

"Right then."

"And Time Mage who has no idea how to use his powers," I add. "Which is probably the reason for the aforementioned."

"Well, not to worry!" Cassie says brightly. "I'm going to help you with both of those! I can just imagine all of the fascinating things you might know but have forgotten. And this sort of Time Magic is unprecedented. I'd like to find out all I can about it and see just what you can do, provided you're willing to experiment a bit."

I grin. "Absolutely. I suspected that I could possibly be able to count on you."

Cassie giggles. "That's less than reassuring, but okay."

"It's been a long time, longer than I even know anymore, and I'm pretty sure that I've never even really experimented with this magic," I say. "I've relied on throwing it around by instinct and will, without any real understanding. I've done things people would have thought were impossible, and I have no idea how I did them."

"I take it today's ritual was one of the first times you have attempted to harness this talent into a more ordered pattern?" Abraxas asks.

I take a deep breath and look at the ceiling. "It's entirely likely that it is _the_ first time. Sometimes I get the feeling that I'm doing things worn into grooves in my mind, things I've done before but don't quite remember. But when something is completely new, it feels different. Like," I look at them and lean against the table, my voice suddenly more energetic, "Not long ago, I learned to fight with two swords. It felt different. It felt like I was actually _learning_ something, and not just _remembering_ something."

"Muggle swords?" Cassie raises an eyebrow.

I shake my head. "No, no, they were these magical weapons." I hold out my hands to indicate. "A hilt, about so long, that creates a blade of pure energy, powered by a crystal. I've been trying to gather the materials to create new ones, but it's been difficult to procure them around here. My house-elf's been working on it for the past month with limited success."

"An interesting project, to be certain," Abraxas says. "With how many things you seek to do, it is well enough that you have ample amounts of time to do them with. Provided that you do not forget what you have learned, at least."

I smile almost giddily. "It would take a thousand years to learn everything that has already been discovered, and if I did, a thousand years from now, there would be another thousand years worth to learn anew. And that's only of the knowledge and discoveries of others. To build and create? The universe is a wonderful place, and the possibilities are limitless."

* * *

"This is so weird," Draco mutters, intently watching the game of Exploding Snap I'm playing with Ron.

"You're telling me," Ron says.

"Oh, no, you don't get to talk," Draco says. "You're not the one whose grandfather just turned into his little brother."

"Point," Ron says.

"I'm still having to wonder to myself if the others shouldn't have been Obliviated," I say quietly.

"What, you don't trust us?" Ron says, hurt.

I narrowly restrain myself from attacking an exploding card, and shake my head. "No, no, it's not that. It's that I don't trust Dumbledore."

"I don't follow," Ron says.

"Do you guys know how to protect your minds?" I ask.

"Are you suggesting Dumbledore would read our minds?" Ron wonders incredulously, entirely forgetting about the game as a card explodes in front of him and he doesn't bother to play again.

"Even Dumbledore couldn't get away with using Legilimency on students," Draco insists.

"Are you sure about that?" I say with a smirk.

"If he tried something like that, the Board of Governors would be all over him!"

"Just like they've been all over him when he devised the holiday schedule?" I say. "And anyway, how could they prove it?"

Draco groans. "If you say he is, Merlin's beard I'll believe you, but…"

"Bloody hell?" Ron supplies.

"Fucking shit?" I suggest.

"The mouths on both of you," Draco grumbles, pauses, "But yeah." He takes a deep breath. "You're certain of this, I take it?"

I nod. "I've felt him a few times. He also dosed me with 'Truth Truffles' after Yule."

"Wait, he gave you sweets laced with Veritaserum? Seriously?" Draco says.

"That's totally illegal," Ron says.

I pull out the peppermints I saved and give one to each of them. "Then he gave me these 'Prevarication Peppermints' to cancel the effect. I decided to quietly pocket a few extra when he wasn't paying attention."

"You've kept these in your pocket since we got back from C— Yule?" Ron says skeptically.

I chuckle. "I had Dobby preserve them. Here, you guys keep these, just in case."

"What would Dumbledore do if he found out what we've done?" Draco wonders.

"Probably nothing," I say. "Really, we haven't exactly done anything _bad_ and we're firmly on the side of right here. And if he questions that, I will shove it down his throat."

"With how reckless you are sometimes, it's a wonder you didn't wind up in Gryffindor," Draco comments.

"I am not _reckless_ ," I say. Although occasionally I'm pretty cavalier about death, but that's hardly reckless when I can't really die.

"You're pretty bold about dealing with Dumbledore, though," Draco says.

I roll my eyes. "I'm not scared of Dumbledore."

"They say he's the only one you— er, the Dark— er, Voldemort, ever feared," Draco says.

"Well, I'm not Voldemort," I say firmly, pinning Draco with a hard look.

Ron cringes. "Do we have to call him that?"

"Yes," I reply. "I'm the Dark Lord now, and if anyone says anything so retarded as 'You-Know-Who' in my presence I will hex them. Seriously, if they were so scared of a _name_ , couldn't they have come up with a better euphemism?"

"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Ron supplies.

"That's long _and_ pretentious," I comment. "Who the fuck over the age of eleven uses a euphemism like 'You-Know-Who'?"

"We _are_ eleven," Ron points out.

"Anyway, most that's going to happen is he interrogates me. Again."

"But what do you suppose he might do about Cassie and my—my— _brother_ ," Draco says, scrunching up his face again.

I tap my fingers on the table, looking down at the mess that was a forgotten game of Exploding Snap. "Hard to say." I shake my head. "At any rate, I have nothing to hide. Cassie and Brax—"

Abraxas stalks into the room, with Cassie on his heels. "I do wish you all would desist in calling me by that foolish nickname. Just because I look like a child does not mean you can say what you please."

"Oh, do relax, Brax," Cassie says, grinning at him. He makes a disgusted noise, and stalks out of the room again. Cassie turns to me. "You know, you might want to bleed off some of that excess magical energy before you head back to school."

Come to think, I _have_ been buzzing with the Light Side all day. "Was there that much extra?"

"That sort of power level could have rejuvenated at least a dozen people at once, easily," Cassie says. "I vastly overestimated the power requirements, or underestimated your own potential output. I had been a little nervous about it without it having a strong node behind it, but it seems my concerns were completely unfounded. The ritual accessories could have been reduced, and it could probably be done on any day out of the year, albeit without as many subjects. It's not a wonder the magic went wild, as unbalanced and severely overcharged as it was."

"Hmm, where'd Brax go?" I wonder.

"Are you just doing this to annoy him?" Draco asks.

"Yes," I say, at the same time as Cassie says, "No."

Draco smirks. "Well, at least someone here can get away with it."

Generally, I've bled off extra energy and emotion with raining destruction upon whatever is available. But this isn't the Dark Side. It's very much Light Side. I am calm, content, happy, cheerful, even enthusiastic. Even the thought of Dumbledore reading my mind wasn't enough to dampen my spiel about how wonderful life is.

"Alright, Cassie, shall we go back out to the garden?" I suggest.

"Certainly," she says.

"Well, while you two lovebirds have an evening walk in the gardens, I'm going to pull out a Quaffle and toss a few rounds with Ron," Draco says, looking aside at him. "You up for it, Weasley? Wanna see how much I can show you up?"

"You're on, Malfoy," Ron says, grinning.

"We're not— I'm not— oh, whatever," I say, chuckling. I wave them off and head out back with Cassie.

"This place is still saturated too," Cassie comments as we step outside. The air is still chilly, but the sky is clear, the sun slipping low into the sky.

"I never would have thought having too much energy would be a problem," I say. "But then, usually when I wind up with too much energy, it's of a decidedly more negative sort. I get angry enough, I could kill myself with an overcharged lightning spell."

"Do you frequently have that problem?" Cassie wonders.

I shrug. "Lightning comes easily to me, and so does anger at times. I've been working at it. I don't like to lose control." I look at the ground. "But it's alright. I've been doing better at it, usually. And right now? I'm happy. I feel like I really could pull all this off. Hope beyond hope." I smile at her. "There's… a spell that requires happiness, isn't there." I stare off across the trees.

"I think there's a few, at least, but you might be thinking of the Patronus Charm," Cassie says.

I nod. "Yes! I think that was it."

"It needs a happy thought, and it's used to fight Dementors." She makes a face. "I always hated those things. Shadows of death that feed off light and happiness. I had the misfortune to be near one once or twice, and I don't care to repeat the experience. If you've forgotten, the incantation is ' _Expecto Patronum'_. I don't know the wand movements."

"A happy thought, huh," I say, pulling out my wand and raising it into the air.

Here I am, at the side of an old, forgotten friend. My mind is my own. My life is my own. A dark fate averted, the universe healed. I am no longer fettered by regret. The multiverse stretches before me, full of hope and possibilities. And I need not travel it alone. Someone else might have taken saving the universe to be a happy ending. But there need never be a happy ending. There are no true endings. Not for time, not for immortality. And I will never accept the existence of death, or the thought that all things must end. I dream of a world, a bright future where all beings a free to do as pleases them, to live, to love, to build, to create, to dream dreams of their own, where death is but a memory of a dark time now long past. I seek a happy _eternity_.

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

A radiant light erupts from the end of my wand, eclipsing the setting sun with its brilliance. At first I cannot see what it is, but it moves away a bit and coils around us, with a long, serpentine tail and graceful wings. I pour out all of my excess energy into the spell. Not merely a magical construct, it's a spirit of the Force. A Force ghost that was never alive in physical form to begin with? Let's go with 'spirit'.

"Holy gods," Cassie breathes. "Your Patronus is a dragon? It's beautiful."

"Her name is Eternity," I say quietly.

It would be a shame to let this energy to go waste. I bring to mind a friend, forgotten adrift in the mists of time. Dumbledore had named him Gellert Grindelwald. He would be old now as well, and imprisoned in Nurmengard. Whatever I might intend with him, I will free him, regardless. He deserves that much. No being should be imprisoned or enslaved. I think of Cassie's 'father', Sirius, being imprisoned in Azkaban. He deserves to be free, too. But, he's younger. Gellert might not have much time left. I will set out to free them both soon enough, but right now, I have an overcharged rejuvenation ritual I need to discharge. I wonder if I can use the Patronus to carry Light Side energies? Well, no harm in trying it. Let's find out.

"Eternity, my dear," I say, smiling, running my fingers through the air near where her head is, but there's nothing to touch. "You know my old friend, Gellert?" She nods. "Can you find him? Tell him I'm coming for him soon. And wish him happy Imbolc."

The words aren't really necessary, I don't think, beyond the message, perhaps. She understands my intent and who I'm looking for. There's probably plenty of people in the world named Gellert. The glowing spirit nods, and flies off, vanishing into the Force once she's a short ways away from us.

Cassie stares off as the creature disappears, then giggles. "If that's who I think you meant, you're going to have one very confused former Dark Lord soon."

"Not going to wonder how I know Grindelwald?" I ask.

"You met him in an alternate future in which you aged him down like you did with me, and you got along with him well enough to produce vague memories of your friendship," Cassie replies.

I laugh. "I should just hand this off to you. You could probably guess better at my memories than me."

Cassie grins. "I can't do all the work here."

"So, have I bled off sufficient magic?" I ask, and she nods. "How can you even sense it that closely, anyway? I'd like to think _I'm_ well-attuned to the Force—"

"The Force?" Cassie repeats.

Damn, slip of the tongue. And I've been so good about it usually. "Sorry, alternate universe terminology. People there thought calling it 'magic' sounded positively superstitious and dismissing its true nature."

Cassie nods. "Sometimes it's harder to sense things when you're in the middle of them, especially light magic." She looks up at the clear, dim sky. "Like you didn't notice how warm it was inside until you stepped outside."

"Or how cold it is outside?" I respond.

"That's a matter of perspective."

"Oh, no," I say. "We're not going to start talking about how everything is 'from a certain point of view' now."

"Well, how else do people defeat Veritaserum?" Cassie says with an almost coy grin.

"By lying to themselves?"

"If you set your feet against the tide, eventually you'll be swept away," Cassie says.

Amidst a ring of crocuses, a fountain burbles, a stone spiral matched by a spiral of water, obviously enchanted to flow in defiance of gravity.

"You can't swim by fighting the water," Cassie says. "You can't fly by battling the air."

"Cassie…" I say quietly. "I think I see why I fell in love with you."

Cassie chuckles. "What, because I spout pithy wisdom that I'm pretty bad about actually following myself?"

"Well, so long as you're honest about it," I say with a grin. "But by all means, go on, I'll listen at least."

"I don't know how much you believed that speech earlier about how wonderful life is, but it was inspirational to _me_ at least."

I wave a hand. "Oh, come on, if you say things like that, it might go to my head, and my ego is already big enough as it is."

Cassie leans close and lowers her voice. "You've mentioned time travel. You've mentioned alternate universes. How many times— how many trips through time? How many universes have you seen? No, you don't even know, do you. But this isn't just a simple case of a single hop back."

"Far more than one simple hop." I nod in agreement. "Far more than I can remember. A dozen, at least, that I can be sure of. Dozens, hundreds, thousands, possibly."

"I want to see them. What sort of wonderful things have you seen and experienced, and forgotten?" She holds up a finger. "Don't just tell me. You don't even know the extent of it yourself. But don't think for a moment you're leaving me behind, not after dragging me into this."

"I didn't exactly hear you kicking and screaming," I say with a grin. "And anyway, what makes you think I can take you with me?"

"We already covered one impossibility this morning," Cassie says. "We'll get the rest in due time. You know, you might not have even wound up in the same universe that you started off in. Can you be sure? Especially if you don't remember much."

"I hadn't really thought of that."

"Things might be just a little different here and there," Cassie says. "Abraxas might have died a year sooner. I might have been Sorted into Ravenclaw. Voldemort might not have been defeated."

"This _isn't_ the universe I started off in," I say. "In this universe," I lower my voice, "Harry Potter died at the age of five years old, by accident. I took his place when I came to this universe last year."

"Oh," Cassie says, frowning. "Yes, that could certainly change things. And aside from the implications _that_ would have, there might be differences well before then."

"I'd been thinking in terms of a single point of divergence," I say.

"It's rarely so simple as that," Cassie says. "What if the actual divergence took place long before the visible, obvious differences? What if things had been building up, little by little, like ripples in a pool of water? The wave crashing upon the shore is not the only effect of the tide."

"I should take my own advice when I talk about not trusting in expectations," I say. "You've spent a lot of time thinking about this."

"Haven't you?" Cassie asks. "I suppose you may have forgotten how things might turn out differently when you do different things, even in unexpected ways."

"I haven't really had the opportunity to look at the long-term effects of small changes," I say.

Cassie flashes a grin at me. "Well, then, let's! We're going to have so much _fun_!"

"Somehow I feel like I'm actually the one being dragged along," I say with a chuckle. "Suddenly I know how Abraxas feels."

* * *

I stare off wistfully at Cassie as we board the train to head back to Hogwarts. If the ones who run the train give any indication that they're upset about their increase in workload, they give no indication. Not that they realize it's inadvertently my own fault. But maybe they have children or grandchildren at Hogwarts, too. How had they gotten away with this sort of oppression? I don't understand it. It could not have been solely Dumbledore's doing.

Once we arrive in Hogsmeade, Professor Snape is waiting to escort us to the castle, but when we enter the Great Hall for dinner, he pulls me aside and says, "As for you, Mr. Potter. Professor Dumbledore informed me that he wished to speak with you immediately after you arrived."

I groan softly. "Why is he so intent upon asking me how my holidays were? I haven't even eaten dinner yet."

"One point from Slytherin for whinging," Snape says.

"You know, negative reinforcement isn't the best way to ensure proper behavior," I say. "Anyway, I suppose I'll go see him." I stroll up to the Headmaster's office and mutter to the gargoyle at the entrance, "Nerds." The gargoyle stubbornly stays put. I grumble, "Alright, Headmaster, you've changed the password, I see." I bite back an uncharitable comment.

After a moment, the gargoyle opens, revealing the stairs up to the Headmaster's suite. "Harry, my boy," Dumbledore greets me.

"Good day, Headmaster," I reply. "I had a wonderful Imbolc, thank you for asking. What's this about? Usually you at least wait until I've had dinner first before asking me how my holidays went."

"I apologize for the interruption," Dumbledore says. "As well as my previous behavior. It was uncalled for."

I shrug. "You were understandably concerned. But what happened to cause the change of heart?"

"I just got off of a firecall with the Minister of Magic berating me for permitting my students to observe the pagan holidays," Dumbledore says.

"That's understandable as well, if he believes them to be dark magic."

"You are more charitable than I would be in your situation," Dumbledore says. "I fear I had not previously realized you were a pagan, up until you mentioned Imbolc."

"You didn't realize Anthony Goldstein was a Jew, either," I point out.

"Neither did I realize there were so many pagans at Hogwarts," he goes on. "Minister Fudge is threatening to withdraw Ministry support if I continue to allow the practice of 'dark arts' amidst my students."

"Fudge," I repeat. "The Minister of Magic is named _Fudge_?"

"Cornelius Fudge, yes."

I try to stifle a snicker. "What did you say to… Fudge?"

"I told him that the Ministry does not dictate when Hogwarts breaks take place, nor that permitting students who wish to do so to see their families every few weeks implies supporting the dark arts."

"Thank you," I say. "What would losing Ministry support mean?"

"We are not short on money, thankfully," Dumbledore says. "But it is likely to cause other problems, if this goes too far. So, what did you do for Imbolc?"

"We performed the Ritual of Renewal to welcome the coming of spring," I reply. "And I'm not under Veritaserum this time." I don't need to tell him the details, though.

Dumbledore sighs. "Yes, I apologize for that."

"What I want to know is, how did this situation come to pass?" I wonder. "The old pureblood families have the money and power. How did their traditions wind up being so thoroughly suppressed?"

"They may have the money and the seniority, but it is currently we half-bloods, and Muggleborns, who hold the real power, solely by majority," Dumbledore replies. "And ever since the rise of Voldemort, they have been increasingly looked down upon and hamstrung by people wishing to distance themselves from them. Many old pureblood families were destroyed in the last war, killed to the last, imprisoned without offspring, and the ones who remain free often have had only one child, if any. They are already dying."

"But not dead," I say. "Draco didn't complain that he was unable to observe the Winter Solstice, nor even mention it beforehand. Are they just afraid to say anything?"

"There's the common perception that they're dark magic, and that admitting that they observe them is as good as admitting to performing dark magic," Dumbledore says.

"Believe me when I say, I _know_ dark magic, and the rituals I've seen were as light as could be."

"I'll take you for your word, this time," Dumbledore says.

"You have no idea how much I appreciate that," I say. "I would much rather have you as an ally than an enemy, and I don't like the thought that I can't trust you. You know, especially after the incident with the Truth Truffles."

"I will apologize for that again," Dumbledore says. "I am, however, concerned about the Ministry, and I do not believe that I would be able to convince them to have a change of heart."

"I'm surprised that _you_ had a change of heart, to be honest," I say.

"Yes, well, let it not be said that this old man is entirely closed-minded," Dumbledore says with a chuckle, eyes twinkling. "And I fear that the more vehemently Cornelius argues for something, the less inclined I am to listen to him."

I tap my finger on the arm of my chair. "On a totally unrelated subject, are you aware that Professor Quirrell is possessed by Voldemort? I figured it out almost immediately, but I thought you either had it well in hand, or wouldn't listen to me anyway."

"Yes, I was fairly certain of that," Dumbledore says. "I laid a trap for him using the Philosopher's Stone, believing that he would be unable to resist going after it."

I nod. "Okay."

"And I appreciate that _you_ can trust me with that."

I grin. "Well, it's not like _I_ have any use for a Philosopher's Stone, nor really care to deal with Voldemort just now. He's not hurting anyone, right now, beyond being another terrible teacher, and if he starts to do so, I will be obligated to kick his ass on principle. But before I can do so, I need to relearn skills I have forgotten, unfortunately."

"At least you realize he is currently out of your league."

I shrug. "Not that that's ever stopped me. I generally prefer a fair fight just to demonstrate my superiority, because it's more likely to make their followers rethink what they're doing, but if it's really necessary to stop someone expediently, well, I won't give them a fair fight."

"I can see why the Sorting Hat placed you in Slytherin."

"And you were so concerned about that," I say. "Slytherin just means ambition and cunning. If I have to declare myself the Dark Lord—"

"—which you already did—"

"—and take over the world, to ensure that everyone has a chance to be happy and free, then so be it, but I won't like it, and I won't claim it's for the greater good or any such rot, but just because some asshole in power pissed me off."

"You are starting to make me reconsider again," Dumbledore says with a chuckle.

"Would you prefer I be dishonest about my motivations? I can always do that, too. And hey, I've got some ideas, too, but I'll get to that later. Right now, why don't we go get something to eat, before dinner gets cold?"

"The plates are enchanted to keep it warm."

"Not my point! I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast, because I didn't feel like munching on Cauldron Cakes all the way here."

Dumbledore chuckles. "Yes, let's. I believe we have run circles around the same arguments sufficiently for one day."

"I hope you've at least looked at them from a different perspective."


	12. Fencing Club

I pull out Tom Riddle's diary, secure behind my bed curtains, and bring out my new self-inking quill. "Imbolc went well," I write. "I have high hopes for Beltane."

"I take it you have not encountered anyone you wish to murder in the intervening time," Tom Riddle writes back to me.

"I'm not going to murder someone for you, Tom," I reply.

"Shame," Tom writes.

I muse, "I could always kill Quirrell, though, I suppose."

"Quirrell?" Tom wonders.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, such as it is," I write. "Completely useless as a teacher, probably intentionally. Happens to be possessed by Voldemort."

"Voldemort is possessing your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?" Tom replies. "Why?"

"To get into the castle, I assume," I write back. "Dumbledore has a Philosopher's Stone hidden in the castle, or at least he claims to, says he's using it as bait for a trap for Voldemort."

"There is no way that he could not realize that this is a trap," Tom replies. "It's far too obvious, and far too easy for it to be a ruse in the first place. He would be a fool to fall for it, and Dumbledore must think him a fool if he expects him to."

"Dumbledore seems to believe it likely to work," I write.

"How strong did Voldemort seem to you?"

I think back, tapping the feather on my lip for a moment. "Experienced, dangerously skilled, yes, certainly not to be underestimated. But strong? No. A fluttering parasite desperately feeding off of a feeble man in the faint hope of survival. They've been growing weaker throughout the year, and I doubt Quirrell will survive another few months."

"Perhaps he is desperate enough to try, even knowing that it's a trap, then," Tom muses.

"I suspect as much, yes," I write. "Offing Quirrell at this point would just be a mercy killing, but he's not bothering me."

"Still, I don't understand why he doesn't simply perform a human sacrifice ritual on a magical day," Tom continues. "He seems to be reaching too far without consideration for immediate concerns."

"Maybe. The Philosopher's Stone wouldn't just resurrect him, but continue to keep him young and healthy?"

"Yes," Tom answers. "Maybe he thinks that if he's resurrected with it, he'll come back stronger. Regardless, what do you intend to do about him?"

"If he starts messing with me or mine, starts being an idiot, starts a self-destructive and pointless war, then I will stop him," I reply.

"You think you can?"

"One way or another, yes," I write. "I don't have to give him a fair fight. I would really rather not have to fight him at all, though."

"Leave him be for the moment, but keep an eye on him," Tom suggests.

"Yeah, regardless of whether I feel like performing a human sacrifice, Beltane is probably the best opportunity," I write.

"Maybe a goat?"

* * *

"No, Mr. Weasley, you may not have the day off of classes for the Chinese New Year," Professor McGonagall says. "You are not Chinese."

"But Su Li is!" Ron says. "We've got to support her, right?"

"Li Su," I say. "I think. Maybe?"

"Is it Su Li or Li Su?" Draco wonders.

"Chinese surnames come before the given names," Hermione says. "Her surname is 'Li'."

"Good to know," Draco says.

"Regardless, she's in Ravenclaw and we barely know her," Hermione says.

"You'll never be Head Boy if you skive off of classes." I grin.

"If you do wish to celebrate the Chinese New Year, you may do so after classes," McGonagall says. "I understand your brothers have procured some fireworks." She sighs. "Normally I would attempt to discourage them, Merlin knows they need little enough excuse to cause things to explode, but I will make an exception just today."

Ron grumbles. "Fine, fine."

"Now, please turn your attention back to the Transfiguration lesson. I expect to see at least some of your forks to be feathery by the end of class."

* * *

Creating a lightsaber isn't really that delicate of work — any Padawan can do it, after all. They're sturdy and capable of continuing functioning even if dropped in water, thrown off cliffs, or hurled into the vacuum of space. The construction is more Force power than technology. While the claims that you need to be a Jedi just to swing one around are exaggerated, neither can you make a lightsaber by technology alone. And I'm still missing the most important part: the crystal.

The basic parts weren't available, so Dobby had to find me workable materials as well as the tools to craft them into the forms I need. I'm basically reinventing the wheel here, and doing a lot of improvisation. Having to do it all in my dorm room under the watchful eye of my dorm mates makes me glad I can trust them, though.

"Dobby hopes the cally-purrs helps Master Harry," the little house-elf says. "Dobby gets everything Master Harry wants?"

"Yeah," I say. "Just going to need one more piece, and I don't think you can really help with that."

"What does Master Harry need?"

"A magical focus, like a crystal, or a gemstone," I say. "Do you know where such a thing might be found?"

"Hmm," Dobby hmms. "Maybe! Dobby will look."

"Either way, when you find a source, if you find a source, let me know," I say. "I'll need to pick out one attuned to me myself." I shrug. "There should be something feasible. If not, I'll have to look into making one myself."

"Okie-dokie!" Dobby says cheerfully. "Dobby does good work? Dobby gets a day off?"

I grin. "And a bonus."

Dobby claps his hands together, bouncing from one foot to the other, then disappears with a pop.

"I'll never understand why you humor that weird elf," Draco says, chuckling. "But I guess he's happy and being useful, and he doesn't really ask for much."

"What are you making, anyway?" Ron asks. "Is that for a class?"

"A bit of a personal project here," I say. "At least Dobby was able to find suitable lenses." I indicate the small, smooth glass domes. "I didn't relish having to grind my own." Cylinders that will become the hilts, fixings to hold the crystals in place once I find them, switches to turn them on, casings and supports. Once I'm done with this last bit of work, all I'll have left to do will be to insert the crystals and bring the whole thing together with the Force. Without the Force, all of this is merely metal and glass. No power and no meaning.

"But what are you making?" Ron wonders.

"Magic swords," I explain. "Just hope I can get this to work. But the idea is," I pick up one of the half-finished hilts in my left hand and brandish it, "This is the hilt, see? Then once I get some sort of focus, it'll make a glowing blade, like, whoosh, wrn wrn," I swing the hilt around menacingly around the room. "See there? If it had been active, I'd have just cut off your heads."

"Well, I'm glad there's nothing in it yet, then," Draco says with a smirk. "Why are you making two, though?"

"Either so I can use a two-blade form," I say, grabbing the other hilt in my right hand and posing, "or so someone else can use one, I haven't decided yet." I pause. "Or, alternatively, to have backup materials set up in case I fuck this up horribly. Making no guarantees that this doesn't explode or something."

"If you're going to possibly make things explode," Theodore puts in, "do let me know first so I can be elsewhere. Like, say, the Astronomy Tower."

"I'll do that," I say.

"I want one," Ron says suddenly.

"You sure about that?" I ask. "Do you even know how to use a sword?"

"Well, no," Ron says. "But I can learn."

I look at him appraisingly, at his undisguised eagerness and enthusiasm, and give a curt nod.

"Fencing?" Blaise says. "Sounds like fun."

"I'm in," Draco adds, not to be left out of something.

"Well, now that I have the tools and know where to get more materials, if this works we could make more. But yes, first, gotta know how to use a sword. Why don't we make a club of it?" I suggest. "Hmm, I wonder if there is one already." I put the hilts away and head up to the Slytherin common room.

"Hi, Harry," Pansy says, smiling at me as I enter the room. "I was wondering if you'd poke your head out of your hole or if I'd have to wait until dinner."

"Wait for what?" I wonder.

"I made something for you." She pulls out a bright red card, the color of fresh blood, and hands it to me.

"What's this?" I ask, holding it up and looking it over. There's a pink stylized heart on the front, with the words 'Be my Valentine' in animated sparkles.

"It's Valentine's Day, don't you know?" Pansy says brightly.

"Valentine's Day?" I repeat dumbly. Shit, for all the holidays Dumbledore mentioned, I had forgotten to actually look up some of them.

Draco peers over my shoulder. "Oooh, Harry's got a Valentine!"

"Well, open it!" Pansy says impatiently.

Completely confused, I expand the card. Between the folds, a flickering illusion of a dancing cherub appears for a few moments before sputtering and dying.

"Not a very good spell, was it," teases one of the older boys. "How long did it take you to get that to work at all?"

"Oh, lay off, Bole," Draco snaps.

"What, you wish Parkinson had sent _you_ a Valentine instead?" Bole retorts, causing Draco to blush.

I roll my eyes. "More like, he knows just how many hexes Pansy can cast and where she will cast them if you don't stuff a sock in it."

Pansy practically swoons and smiles at Bole menacingly.

"Oh, like I'm scared of an ickle firstie," Bole huffs, folding his arms across his chest. "Not even if she's in _love—"_ he says in a mocking singsong, "with the next 'Dark Lord'."

Is that what this all means? Now my own cheeks are burning. Pansy is infatuated with me? I'm not really prepared to court an eleven-year-old girl, but neither do I see any reason to push her away and break her heart. Ugh, why are personal relationships so complicated?

"And here I was coming up here to ask if there's a fencing club," I say, smoothly trying to recover and pointedly _not_ replying to that insinuation. "I'm sure Pansy would love to learn how to stick pointy objects into sensitive parts of people's anatomy."

A few people snigger, and I realize that I had perhaps worded that poorly, grit my teeth and glare while flushing even harder. Fuck sake, I am being such an adolescent today.

Bole glares. "There isn't any _fencing club_ , and why would anyone want to learn such a Muggle sport, anyway?"

"Like Quidditch is just a Muggle sport, because it has balls?" I reply.

There are more sniggers, to which I just have to roll my eyes.

"Oh, come on," I say.

"If Potter is entirely done embarrassing himself," Draco says, "can I get a Sonorus?"

Gemma Farley points her wand at him and casts, " _Sonorus_."

"Pardon me, if I may have your attention please?" Draco announces to the common room with an amplified voice. "Thank you. If anyone is interested in practicing the fine and time-honored wizarding tradition of fencing, please join us in the Great Hall after breakfast tomorrow. That is all." Gemma cancels the spell.

* * *

"But I've been holding it this way for years!" I protest.

"Then you've been doing it wrong for years," says Bridget, the sixth year girl adjusting the grip on my practice weapon. Brown fingers move mine to what she insists is the correct position. "Who taught you, anyway?"

I scowl. How dare this mere Padawan impugn my skills! I should show her what I can do, firsthand! Mere practice swords will not prevent me from causing grievous bodily harm if I so choose. She will bow down to me and acknowledge my superiority if I must make my point violently, and as she is questioning my capacity for violence, that will be the only way to show her, to show them all! I could—

"Psst," Draco whispers into my ear. "Eye of the storm."

The undue rage rushes out of me in an instant and I remember where I am and what I'm doing. I look over at Draco and incline my head low toward him in gratitude. He'd seemed amused at first at me being corrected, but he must have noticed something was very wrong for a moment there. Did my eyes turn yellow or something? Either way, he damned well correctly judged the situation and prevented an incident.

I take a deep breath and turn back to Bridget. "Right, sorry, spaced out for a moment there. Okay, show me your way of doing things, then."

Bridget looks at me, more confused than alarmed, but then dismisses it and moves on to the lesson. She didn't recognize the danger that Draco had. She didn't register the murder in my eyes. It's probably just as well. Is it disingenuous to not want people to fear me when they probably should, in all honesty, actually fear me? Or just hypocritical? I think that's the whole point of it. I don't want to be feared. And I don't want to have to be feared but by my enemies.

And here, today, isn't the point of learning to discover new things and take the best of everything I learn? Why should I be upset about that?

"Seems like whoever taught you left you some bad memories," Bridget says quietly. "Must have been a real slave driver. Well, don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."

I nod hesitantly to her. "Thanks."

"Let's run through the basics, see what you know, see what you need to learn, see if you've picked up any bad habits. Alright?" She's speaking to me as if I'm some raw Padawan who barely learned some practice forms as a youngling. I remind myself, she sees me as an eleven-year-old. That's how she's supposed to be seeing me.

"Alright."

* * *

Dobby pops into the dormitory after the second meeting of Fencing Club, and I glance up from my game of Exploding Snap. A card explodes with a snap, and I ignore it. Haven't destroyed any tables recently, at least.

"Hi, Dobby," I say.

He claps his hands together. "Master Harry! Dobby finds it. Dobby finds what Master Harry has been looking for! There's a big, magic cave, all glowing and full of shinies!"

My eyes widen, and I push the cards away. "Really? Where?"

"In Whales!" Dobby exclaims.

"I see this is more important than card games," Blaise says with a grin. "Ron, you up for a round?"

"Can you show me?" I ask Dobby. "Can you take me there?"

"Are you really intending to go to Wales tonight?" Draco wonders, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes," I reply flatly. "Well, I'll take a nap first, at least."

Draco rubs his head. "Right then. What excuse shall I make for you if you aren't back by Monday?"

"Tell them I'm just hiding."

"Just hiding," Draco repeats.

"I'll probably actually be dead, anyway, but that'll mess with their heads," I say offhandedly.

"Maybe we should go with you," Ron suggests, looking at me dubiously.

"Dobby will protect Harry Potter!" the house-elf proclaims.

"I think he's better off with the elf," Draco says with a smirk.

"Hey!" Ron protests.

"Don't underestimate house-elves, Ron," Draco says. "Just be glad that they're not normally violent."

That shuts Ron right up.

"Alright, I'm going to take a nap," I say. "Wake me up in two hours if I'm not awake by then."

* * *

"Wakey-wakey, Master Harry!" Dobby cries, shaking me in my bed.

Ron groans. "You don't need to wake up the rest of us too."

I climb out of bed, pull on my boots, and grab my wand. "Lead the way, Dobby," I say quietly, just in case anyone _wasn't_ woken up by his enthusiastic clarion call.

We head out to the common room, and Dobby pulls out a handful of Floo powder and hands it to me. "Dobby has something to show Master Harry. Take the Floo to Caer Danas."

"Alright," I say. I toss a bit of Floo powder into the fireplace, and when the flames turn green, I say "Caer Danas!" and step inside. I tumble out a dim room, lit only by the guttering fireplace, and lift my wand to mutter, " _Lumos_."

The spell illuminates a large, dusty chamber, like the main hall of an old manor. Cobwebs cling to tables and chairs, and faded tapestries hang along the walls.

Dobby pops in beside me and says, "Dobby is sorry that he has not had time to clean up much. But Dobby got them to set up the Floo!"

"What is this place?" I wonder.

"This is Master Harry's house!" Dobby says, a wide grin almost splitting his face in two.

"I have a _house_?" I say, heading away from the fireplace to look around. If it's half as large and magnificent as Malfoy Manor, it's a wonder that the Potters owned such a thing, that it be abandoned for so long. This looks like much more than ten years of isolation.

"Dobby finds it in Gringotts records, when Dobby goes to get moneys to look for crystals for Master Harry."

Suddenly, the fireplace flares green again, out comes Gemma Farley, the fifth year prefect. "Merlin, what a mess," she mutters, glancing about.

"Gemma?" I say, staring at her.

"I was half-awake in the common room when you came through," Gemma says. "And I wanted to see what you were up to."

"Concerned about what I might be doing, or concern for my safety?" I wonder.

"The latter, mostly," Gemma says with a smirk. "So where are we?"

"My house, apparently," I say. "My house-elf just found it on Gringotts records and wanted to show it to me."

Gemma wanders around, examining everything, the dusty furniture, the golden wall sconces, the aging hardwood doors. "Looks like an old pureblood manor. Nice."

"Dobby wants to show it to you when he gets it cleaned up," Dobby says sheepishly. "But Master Harry would be sad if Dobby didn't tell him about it first."

"I bet it'll be fantastic with some elf polish," Gemma says. "Shall we head back now? You should get some rest, if you don't want to sleep through your weekend."

I shrug. "I had a nap, and I'm fine with that."

"Dobby wants to show Master Harry the grounds!" Dobby says, clapping his hands together.

Gemma looks at him dubiously. "In the middle of the night in February?"

Dobby nods eagerly, and reaches over to tug at my hand.

"How can you argue with those eyes?" I ask.

Gemma sighs. "You have an overeager house-elf, but I suppose I should go along to keep you out of trouble."

The large doors at the back of the great hall are set with large glass panes. I imagine in the summer, sunlight must stream through here and give the room a feeling of openness. Outside, in the damp, chilly air, the weed-choked yard boasts a gazebo, with peeling white paint and wood that's starting to rot. Pale gleams of a waning moon cast grey shimmers on the ground through overcast skies.

"Ugh, it's cold out here and it might rain," Gemma mutters, pulling her robes closer about her body.

"The cave is warmer," Dobby says. "Dobby shows you the cave!"

Gemma raises an eyebrow. "A cave?"

"Come, come!" Dobby bounds off across the grounds. "It's not far."

"I have a cave near my house?" I wonder.

Dobby shakes his head. "Not near. Under!"

Frowning thoughtfully, I reach out with the Force, expanding my senses. If there's a cave strong in the Force near here, I should be able to sense it. The Force is strong here, not as strong as it is in Hogwarts, but strong enough that it's no wonder the old Potters decided to build a house here. Dobby leads us over to where the house meets up with a small hill, and pushes past some foliage. I would have never thought to look here, past the overgrown plants, if I didn't know what I was looking for.

And yet, something feels subtly wrong. Ripples in the Force that should not be there, like the seams of reality don't quite seem to fit together properly. The smooth cavern walls, lit up by two wands, don't quite seem to cast shadows properly, contorting themselves into flickering shapes resembling monsters, even though the lights are steady.

"I have a very bad feeling about this," I say quietly.

"Are you sure about this, Dobby?" Gemma asks.

"It's not far!" Dobby assures us.

After several twists and turns, winding around into the ground below the manor, the tunnel opens up into a small cavern. A magnificent dome of crystal vaults overhead, spires and columns surrounding us, opalescent light outshining our Lumos charms. Except it's not actually letting off any light. All of this is an illusion.

The false image vanishes like smoke, revealing a man with a hideous purple turban standing in a dim and dead cave. "Well now. I expected you to come alone with the house-elf." The Force behind me hardens into an invisible ward. We're trapped in here.

"Professor Quirrell?" Gemma says in confusion.

I narrow my eyes at him and hold my wand at ready. "What are you doing here?"

"I'll make you a deal, _Darth Revan_ ," Quirrell drawls. "You give me what I want, and I will allow your friend here to go free."

"No stuttering?" Gemma wonders. "Is this really Professor Quirrell?"

"Guess it was all an act," I say. "Our Defense Against the Dark Arts is evil. Does this happen often?"

"Usually just useless," Gemma says. "Though I heard that the one we had before I started turned out to be a cannibal."

"Are you paying attention to me?" Quirrell demands.

"Oh, did I miss my cue?" I ask. "Is this the part where I'm supposed to pretend to be scared?"

"It was not Mr. Weasley's intent to betray you, nor that of your house-elf," Quirrell says. "Through trickery and coercion, I learned of what you sought and provided a means to draw you here."

Dobby scowls at him.

"You know, there are easier ways to kidnap someone," I comment. "Also, I would be more inclined to give you what you want if you actually provided what I was looking for."

"What were you looking for, Harry?" Gemma asks.

"Magic crystals, for a project I've been working on," I reply. "I'll show you when we get back to school."

"Do you mean to tell me that you would assist me of your own free will if I offered you what you sought?" Quirrell retorts.

"Maybe, but you didn't even try," I say. "You just want straight to the kidnapping and threats."

"Irregardless—"

"That's not a word," Gemma says.

" _Irregardless_ ," Quirrell says with a glare, "You will provide me with what I want, whether you wish to or not!"

"You know, this isn't really something you can force someone to do," I say. "And _irregardless_ , I can't do it by myself, not at night, not here, and not on this day of the year."

"Do you know what he's talking about, Harry?" Gemma asks.

I shrug. "He's possessed by Voldemort and thinks I can provide him with immortality."

"How did you infer that?!" Quirrell demands.

"You learned about the ritual I performed on Imbolc from reading Ron Weasley's mind, didn't you?" I ask.

"Yes…" Quirrell says.

"What did you do?" Gemma asks.

"Ritual of Renewal," I say. "Capable of restoring someone's youth. But—" I point at Quirrell. "It wasn't easy, it takes a circle of wizards, it requires a lot of preparation, and it can only be done on Imbolc." He doesn't need to know that that probably isn't the case. "What you're asking is not simple or trivial, and you would need to wait a full year for it. And _irregardless_ , it wouldn't get you a body back anyway. I can't do that."

"Human sacrifice," Quirrell says casually. "You helpfully brought a subject who could provide for that." He glances at Gemma.

"No," I say flatly.

Gemma frowns deeply, and voice shaking almost imperceptibly, says, "Didn't you hear him? He just said he can't do it."

"Then I will simply kill you, while I have the opportunity, and be done with one of my enemies once and for all," Quirrell says, raising his wand menacingly.

Dobby steps in front of us and says with raised hand, "You shall not harm Harry Potter!"

The Force striking like a sledgehammer, Quirrell goes flying back, landing hard against sharp stalagmites at the far end of the cave. His wand clatters to the ground a few meters away.

"Um…" Gemma stares over at him tentatively, not quite daring to poke him to see if he gets up. "Did your house-elf just kill Lord Voldemort?"

"I'm sure he's not really—"

The ground rumbles and the cave shakes, and I almost lose my balance.

"What was that?" Gemma says, steadying herself with a hand against a stone column. "An earthquake?"

"Explosions," I say. "I know explosions. That was definitely an explosion."

Rocks fall, everyone dies.

* * *

"Wakey-wakey, Master Harry!"

"You don't have to wake us up too," Ron groans.

"Give me a moment, Dobby," I say quietly.

I don't bother to wonder about the tectonic stability of Wales. That little braintick must have set up a dead-man's switch of some sort. It's what I would have done. Especially considering he's only possessing Quirrell, so it's not like he would have actually died, either. On the other hand, I wouldn't have expected him to conceive that he could lose in that sort of situation, though. I can conceive of losing, because I die regularly, frequently due to my own foolishness. But this? He had no reason to believe that a child and a house-elf would be able to overpower him.

And that, well. I don't know how far an elf's power goes, but I know I couldn't beat him in a battle of curses. A trap or an ambush would be the main successful ways to defeat him.

Maybe it wasn't actually a dead-man's switch, but a trap he'd rigged to kill me if I showed up when he wasn't there to catch me. Surely he couldn't expect to sit there all the time, after all. That makes more sense.

Either way, I'm not about to go strolling into an ambush. It's disappointing. I'd really hoped there to be a magical crystal cave underneath my house — although just having a nice house is wonderful in and of itself. This is going to take some consideration how to handle it, and consultation of others.

I pull out Tom Riddle's diary and put quill to paper. "Quirrell is trying to lay a trap for me in a cave beneath my house."

"I thought you said he wasn't bothering you?" Tom writes back.

"He's not, aside from, you know, occasionally attempting to murder me," I reply.

"Right, nothing major there," Tom writes.

"He's there right now, but he's rigged the cave with explosives. I don't know the specifics of the mechanism he has set up to cause the cave to collapse."

"Do you intend to try to turn it against him?"

"I'd really rather just leave him alone," I reply. "I don't care about getting revenge for him murdering my parents, and anyway, it's not like it would actually do more than inconvenience him. Mostly, I'm concerned about my house falling out from under my feet."

"Send in a cursebreaker to check, and get someone to reinforce the wards to prevent unauthorized entrance and hostile spells cast by intruders."

"Will do," I write, then put the book away. "I'm still awfully tired, Dobby," I say aloud. "I don't think I'll be going there tonight. I'll just be going back to sleep."


	13. Cursebreaking

"Master Harry wish to see the cave now?" Dobby asks as I get up in the morning.

"I thought you were going last night," Draco says.

"You slept through Dobby waking everyone up?" Ron stares at him incredulously. "And people complain about my sleeping habits."

"Shut up, Ron," Draco says with a smirk.

"So, besides Wales, where exactly is this cave?" I ask.

"Beneath a house," Dobby says, grinning conspiratorially. "Dobby finds an old house in Gringotts records. It belongs to the Potters."

"Is it a big house?" Draco asks.

"Is it a nice house?" Ron asks.

"Would it be good for parties?" Blaise asks.

"Would it be good for rituals?" I put in.

"Would you all just go there already and let me sleep?" Theodore protests.

"I think it can wait," I say, chuckling. "I want to have things checked out first. Make sure the wards and everything are alright."

"Good idea," Draco agrees.

"Well, Dobby wants to clean it up first, too."

I grin. "I trust it will be worth the wait."

* * *

_Dear Lucius Malfoy,_

_It has come to my attention that I have inherited a piece of property. Under the circumstances, I believe it would be prudent—_

I scowl at the parchment. Prudent? I'm about the furthest thing from prudent. I tear that bit off and try again.

_I've learned that I've inherited a house. I'd like to hire specialists to check the area for hostile magic and reinforce the wards._

I tap my quill on my chin. Should I be putting this in writing? Anything I write down, I have to assume Quirrell will read. Do I really care? Nah, let him read my mail, if he must. Let him read the minds of my friends, if he must. That _is_ a fair fight, among the Sith. Use anything you can to your advantage. If he has to stoop to sneaking around an eleven-year-old boy to gain an advantage, that doesn't speak well for his competence, though if he did want to get me out of the picture without pointing fingers at himself, that would be the way to do it.

If he wants to play the Sith way, then so be it. I have nothing to hide. I put quill to paper again.

_The Floo address is Caer Danas_.

"You guys wouldn't happen to know of any good cursebreakers offhand, do you?" I ask.

"My brother, Bill," Ron replies. "He works for Gringotts. He's the best."

"You wouldn't just be saying that because he's your brother, would you?" Draco says with a grin.

"No, really," Ron says.

"Don't worry, Ron," Blaise puts in. "Nepotism is a fine, honored tradition among pureblood families."

"He's— It's not—" Ron sputters. "He really is good!"

Blaise just laughs.

_Ron recommends his older brother, Bill Weasley, who works for Gringotts, and says that he is quite a talented cursebreaker despite his young age._

"Do you think there's really anything that dangerous there?" Ron wonders.

"It's me," I say. "I'm nothing if not paranoid, and it's not like there aren't people who want me dead."

"Would they even know about this house, though?" Ron asks.

"If a house-elf casually browsing Gringotts records could find it, I won't trust in security by obscurity." __

_Sincerely, Harry Potter_

_P.S. Give my regards to Cassie and Brax._

* * *

Midway through March, I receive a letter back from Lucius, delivered by an imperious eagle owl. It was written on a scroll of fine parchment and sealed with a green wax signet.

_To Lord Potter,_

_I have contacted Gringotts and arranged for a cursebreaker and a warder to inspect your family home of Caer Danas and take measures to ensure its security. Per your recommendation, I have requested the presence of William Weasley. As your blood and magical signature is required to ensure that whatever wards and defenses that remain upon the estate to accept the presence of outsiders and permit them to modify the magical constructs thereof, I have arranged the task to be performed when you are out of school for the Vernal Equinox._

_Yours sincerely, Lord Malfoy_

_P.S. Young Abraxas wishes to convey his distaste toward that nickname as well as a request that you desist in using it, along with a resigned admission that you are unlikely to comply regardless._

* * *

Spring crawls in, reluctantly and moistly. The Vernal Equinox leaves us standing outside the old house in the rain, amidst the barren gardens. Many of the weeds are gone, Dobby's handiwork most likely, but nothing new has been planted yet.

"Does this have to be done today?" Draco wonders, pulling his cloak tight around him.

"We really can't reschedule," I say.

"It's just a little rain," Ron says.

"You are welcome to go home where it is dry and pleasant, if you don't want to be here," Abraxas puts in.

"Can we at least put up some charms to ward off the rain?" Draco asks.

"Sorry, kid," says a Jedi in close-cut robes, looking up from arranging some large stones with runes on them. "That might interfere with our job here today."

"Don't call me _kid_ ," snaps Draco, then bites back a retort, and smooths his face with a careful effort. "You're one of the warders? What's your name?"

"Kenneth Shaw," he replies, then grins. "And sorry, kid, but you're definitely a kid. First-year?"

"Yeah," Draco mumbles.

"What's that you're doing there?" I ask, looking over to examine the stones and taking note of the runes on them.

"We brought new wardstones," Ken says. "Don't know if they'll be needed yet. Given the time frame, we weren't able to get in and inspect the place ahead of time, so we don't know if we'll have to replace them or just repair and reactivate them. We'll have to find the old ones, first."

"Hullo, Ron," says a young man with red hair, approaching us. "Fancy seeing you here."

"Bill!" Ron grins widely. "Good to see you."

"Well, I was requested by name," Bill says. "I don't imagine you had anything to do with that." He chuckles. "So, I hear you got Sorted into Slytherin, huh? How's school treating you?"

He and Ron go off to chat while Bill gets his own work set up.

Once Ron is out of earshot, Lucius mumbles, "Should anything unfortunate befall the blood traitor in the course of clearing this estate, I will not mourn."

I snort in amusement. "Did you really just hire him on the chance that there's something really dangerous here?"

"I did not hire him," Lucius says without answering the question. "The funds will be coming out of the Potter vault, after all."

After taking doing a patrol of the grounds, Bill returns to us. "This place is dripping with hostile magic. It's a good thing Harry didn't key into the anchor stone yet. That would have triggered a cascade effect that would have probably killed us all."

"If the curses on the estate are so virulent, why have we not been targeted yet?" Abraxas asks.

"We just haven't stumbled into their triggers yet," Bill says. "Doesn't look like they're set up to attack anyone just standing on the grounds. They're a bit more subtle than that. What's your name, anyway? Are you one of my brother's classmates?"

Abraxas puffs up as much as his ten-year-old body can muster. "I am Abraxas Prometheus Malfoy, second son of Lucius Malfoy and grandson of the illustrious Abraxas Hyperion Malfoy."

I say half-surreptitiously, "Brax somehow manages to be more full of himself than Draco here. It's kind of impressive."

Abraxas glares daggers at me and deflates a bit as Bill chuckles in amusement. "I'll be starting at Hogwarts next year."

"It's going to be a trick here just unraveling this whole mess at all, never mind getting it all done in one weekend," Bill says.

"I didn't expect there would be quite this much to de-curse," Ken says. "Guess we won't be needed just yet."

"We'll still have to find the wardstones, anyway," Bill says. "It's likely some of the curses will be tied into them in addition to the anchor stone."

"Where is the anchor stone, anyway?" I ask.

"It's by that big tree over there," Ken says, pointing.

"We'll have to dismantle the curses on that either first or last," Bill explains. "Doing it first would be more dangerous, but would make removing the rest of the curses a lot easier and quicker. Doing it last would mean we'd have to carefully pick off the other curses and nullify its effects. That would take a lot longer, but would be less likely to explode in our faces."

"We do not particularly have time for the latter," Lucius says.

"That's what I was thinking," Bill says. "If we get the anchor stone first, it'll cut the Gordian knot, pretty literally. Everything else will come apart after that and we can clean up and get this place re-warded."

"What do we need to do first?" I ask.

"Give me a bit to prepare, and get the kids cleared out," Bill says. "If something goes wrong, I don't want them caught up in it."

"But I wanted to watch!" Cassie protests.

"Sorry, it's too dangerous," Bill says. "It's bad enough that Harry will have to be here to access the anchor stone."

"You can watch the warding, if you like, once we're ready to do it," Ken says.

"I will usher them back to Malfoy Manor," Lucius says with a sigh. "It was a terrible idea, bringing them in the first place, but they insisted on coming."

"I know how that goes," Bill says.

"We'll be off, too," Ken says. "Drop me an owl again to schedule a future appointment when you're ready to begin the actual warding, if you aren't done de-cursing the place by Sunday."

"Just as well," mutters Draco, shaking off his cloak. "I want a cup of hot chocolate when we get home."

The others clear out, leaving me alone in the rain with Bill Weasley. The weather hasn't let up any, if anything, the clouds are pouring down even more now than they were when we first got here. He leads the way over toward the tree Ken indicated. A rune-covered stone standing about a meter tall has sunk a little into the ground and overgrown with moss on one side.

"You sure about this, Harry?" Bill asks.

"Yes, I would prefer that my house not blow up, burn down, collapse, or anything else unpleasant," I reply.

"Alright, stand by, and let's try this," Bill says.

Bill waves his wand in a complex motion, muttering a few words of a language I don't know the local name of. The air is tense, and the Force warps around me, the distortion rattling until it's ready to explode.

Amidst it all, I hear hissing, that distinctly sounds like Parseltongue. "Unauthorized access. Passcode not entered. Activating security protocols."

I might be reflecting the sort of thoughts I'm used to in mentally translating that. I doubt snakes would actually talk that like or that Voldemort would have intended those specific words. But I get the point across clearly. I don't have much time to think about it, though. The air rips itself apart around me, and hurls me to the ground a few meters away.

Pain. My skin burns. My blood burns. Something is broken. A lot of things are broken. Ugh… just kill me already and be done with it. I'm barely aware of the world tear itself apart around me as darkness mercifully engulfs me.

* * *

I wake in Malfoy Manor with a jolt. That could have gone better. At least Bill was the only one to suffer for it, and he knew the risks with the job. No, not going to start agonizing over people dying around me. It's not like I'm intentionally going out and doing stupid, reckless things. Anymore. Usually.

We return to Caer Danas and go through the same spiel again, leaving me once more alone with Bill in the pouring rain.

"Here's the anchor stone," Bill says, gesturing toward the old, runed standing stone beneath the tree.

I reach out with my senses to try to get a feel for the Force nexus here. The anchor stone calmly radiates bright, cold energy, protective and stable, comforting like shade and a cool drink on a hot day on Tatooine. But tangled up in it is a dark, thorny vine, blazing with furious heat, ready to sear anyone that makes a wrong move.

"That doesn't look good," I say, squatting down.

"You can sense that?" Bill says, a little incredulous.

I nod. "And that poor anchor stone is old, still strong at its heart but weakened from neglect, but it still seems like it's not giving up easily, even if it's covered in dark and deadly vines. Or snakes, maybe they're more like snakes, hissing softly and ready to spring out and bite us…"

Bill's eyebrows raise. "With that sort of natural magic sense, maybe you'd make a good cursebreaker yourself."

"I have an idea," I say, then hiss in Parseltongue, " _Requesting access."_

" _Enter passcode,"_ the reply comes in the same language, from no discernible source.

"You're a Parselmouth?" Bill says in surprise.

"No, not exactly," I say. "I guess Ron didn't mention, I have a unique talent that lets me speak and understand almost any language." I gesture to the runestone. "The curse complex Voldemort placed wants a passcode."

"You're certain it was You-Know-Who?"

"I'm certain it was Voldemort," I reply. "Let's not be afraid of names. Grindelwald was worse, and nobody's afraid of _his_ name. Besides, of all the euphemisms, 'You-Know-Who' is probably the silliest."

"I guess," Bill says. "So… Voldemort placed these curses," he says with deliberation. "I thought he was dead."

"Only mostly dead, apparently," I say. "Anyway, you'd best stand back. I'm going to start guessing passcodes. That seems slightly less likely to explode in our faces than just trying to rip it out by the roots."

Bill nodes, and takes a few steps back. "Alright. I have no idea what sort of passcode he might have used."

I turn to the anchor stone and hiss, " _Passcode._ "

"Enter passcode," the air hisses back.

"Passcode," I repeat.

"Enter passcode," it replies.

Well, I didn't really think he'd be so stupid as to make the passcode literally 'passcode', but it was worth a shot. Now, what does the name Voldemort mean? "Flight from Death," I try.

"Incorrect passcode," the curse states. "Try again."

I wonder if this thing is set up to have unlimited tries, or if there's a set number allowed. I doubt he would have wanted his own curse to trigger on him, though.

"Conquest of Death," I try.

"Incorrect passcode. Try again."

"Victory over Death."

"Incorrect passcode. Try again."

I start trying whatever else I can think of. "Death. Shadow. Swordfish. Serpent. Master. Dark Lord. Enter. Open. Access. Fuck you. 123456."

"Access granted."

I put my face in my hand and mutter in Basic, "Voldemort, why are you so stupid?"

"What do you mean?" Bill asks.

"His passcode was 123456," I say. "Seriously, who does that? I mean, I understand he didn't expect someone who could speak Parseltongue would show up, but really now. If I wanted something I would absolutely be able to remember no matter what, I would use a unique sentence as a passcode. If I were just trying to secure something, I'd put together some common words that don't normally go together, like 'correct horse battery staple'."

"What?" Bill says, looking at me in puzzlement.

"Never mind," I say, waving a hand. "Anyway, I'm going to try to disable this. Be ready."

Bill nods, and raises his wand.

I turn back to the anchor stone and hiss, "Disable all security protocols."

There's a distinct shift in the Force, and the spell complex replies, "Done."

"Let's hope that actually disabled it," I say quietly, approaching the anchor stone. "This will need my blood to access the house's defenses, right?"

"Yeah. I hope so, too. The curse structure seems to be dormant, but who knows what will actually happen when you try to key into the anchor stone."

I bring out a knife and make a small cut on my right hand, and let a few drops of blood splatter onto the anchor stone. The blood sinks into the runes, flaring into a red pulse. The light fades, and the runes shift to blue, lines tracing along their edges for a moment before settling into a steady glow.

"Anchor stone accessed," the curse complex hisses. "Was authorization granted?"

"Grant authorization for access of the anchor stone and ward stones," I hiss back hurriedly. "Shut down all defenses."

"Anchor stone accessed," the curse hisses in confusion, the air growing tight around me. "Am I allowed to do that?"

"Bill, be ready," I say quietly in English, before replying to the curse complex, "Of course you are. I am your lord and master, and you are merely a spell."

"You do not taste like my master."

"I gave you the password and I can speak to you," I hiss.

The Force ripples. My skin shivers, my hair standing on end. "I do not understand," the curse hisses.

"Stand down!" I hiss fervently. "You were not made to think! Only to obey!"

Bill slashes his wand down in a flash. " _Iksir ti'ban_!"

Violent flames lash out at us and hurl us against the ground. The Force clashes in a deafening roar all around me. Smoldering embers fall upon my skin, burning for a moment before a soothing chill blankets us like a salve.

"Harry, are you alright?" Bill says, not getting up.

"Yeah," I say, coughing. "Yeah, I'm fine. Alive. What happened?"

"That curse setup was way more complex than I had given it credit for," Bill says. "It's a good thing you managed to get the anchor stone activated without immediately setting off the curses. That could have gotten ugly fast."

"Ugh," I say, sitting up and rubbing my face. "I was trying not to set off the curses at all."

"It seems like you at least got them to pull away from the anchor stone a bit," Bill says. "The wards themselves were able to fight back against the hostile magic and protect us. And, thanks to knowing the snake-like nature of the curse structure, I was able to target my breaking spell more precisely. It definitely could have gone a lot worse. Now it'll just be cleaning up the remnants. We might finish this weekend after all."

"Thanks, Bill," I say. "I'm glad you were here. Who knows what that thing would have done to me if I'd tried to mess with it myself?"

"It's a good thing you had the foresight to call me in," Bill says, chuckling. "Even if it was at my brother's recommendation."

Foresight is an easy thing to have when you can travel through time. Just rather painful sometimes. Sometimes it almost feels like cheating, but what kind of Sith Lord would I be if I didn't cheat?

* * *

"Hold still," Cassie admonishes me.

"Oh, come on," I protest. "It barely touched me."

Cassie dabs a bit of ointment onto a tender spot on my face. "I'm still not about to let you go back to Hogwarts with curse burns on your face."

"You're lucky Bill was there," Ron says.

I snort softly. "I assure you, luck had nothing to do with it."

"Hold still!" Cassie says in exasperation.

I sigh and hold perfectly still while she finishes up. The salve is cool and soothing on my skin, and doesn't feel moist at all, leaving a fresh minty fragrance.

"Have you gone to check out that cave you were so excited about yet?" Ron asks.

"I'll certainly take a look in the morning." I chuckle. "It might still be dangerous, though. Bill hasn't cleared out all the curses yet. The worst of it is done, though. Hopefully he'll be able to clear out most of it by then."

Cassie says, "You're not going without backup. I didn't put that face back together just for you to get it blown up again."

"I shall accompany you, as well," Abraxas adds.

Ron glances between the two of them. "I guess you don't need a bunch of _kids_ along to get in the way, then."

I roll my eyes. "You are welcome to go along and get facial burns if you like, Ron."

Ron gives me a long look. "Point conceded." He pauses thoughtfully. "Still, having people around who look like kids but have an adult's magic? I don't even need to be embarrassed when you two show me up in my classes, but it'll be nice when people are trying to kill us."

"What makes you think people will keep trying to kill us?" I say with a grin.

"You're the one who declared yourself the Dark Lord." Ron smirks. "What do _you_ think? And someone obviously put some heavy-duty curses on your house for some reason. They're not going to stop at that."

"Point conceded." I shrug. "So, how's your spellwork lately?"

Ron chuckles. "Hermione might still be getting every spell right the first time and all, but I haven't been skiving off. She hasn't joined Fencing Club, though."

"Not everyone's talents lay in the same areas," I say.

"Some things you can't just learn by reading a book, though," Ron says. "Sometimes you have to go and _do_ it. Like flying and fencing."

"Reading books never hurts, though," Cassie says.

"Unless they're cursed and try to eat your face off," I add lightly.

* * *

"From the way the magic is layered, I'd say that the spells upon this cave were placed here first," Bill says, standing in the yard behind the house near the entrance to the cave. "Now that the curses on top of it have been peeled away, I can remove these."

"Why this cave in particular?" Abraxas wonders. "Is there something significant about it?"

"It looks like there's spells to make you want to explore and subtly direct you to the cave," Bill says. "That's insidious. If you didn't know it was there, sooner or later if you were sleeping in this house you'd stumble upon the cave whether you wanted to or not. Then, there's illusions, I'm guessing to make this cave look beautiful and breathtaking, to further draw you in and divert your attention. And then, once it has gotten you inside… It will collapse the whole thing on top of you."

"That's quite the Devil's Snare," Abraxas comments.

"There are carnivorous plants there, too?" Cassie wonders.

Abraxas rolls his eyes. "I meant that _figuratively_."

Bill smirks, then waves his wand and mutters some words. "I've broken the curse to make it collapse. Do you want to see just what it would have shown you, or shall I just get rid of those now, too?"

"I want to see!" Cassie says.

I chuckle. "Alright, it was probably the crystal cave my house-elf told me about, but it seemed a little… convenient, you know? Let's get a good look at this thing, if you're sure there's nothing harmful down there now."

The four of us work our way down into the tunnel. Even without the deadly curse, the place still feels subtly _wrong_. The cavern looks much like it did when I was here before, but now I have enough time to examine the place in more detail. It's no wonder Quirrellmort dispelled the illusion quickly. It would not have fooled a child for five minutes. The shadows are all wrong, the seams in the rocks don't go together properly.

"Oh, wow, this is beautiful," Cassie breathes, looking around.

"Indeed," Abraxas agrees. "And those moments we would be staring at it, our doom would be upon us."

"Let's see what this place really looks like," I say.

Bill nods, and with a slash of his wand, cuts through the illusion like a lightsaber through… well, almost anything, really. Shards of light flicker to the ground like broken glass, leaving behind the real, dark cave.

Cassie pouts. "This is _much_ less shiny."

"So there's really no magical crystals here at all." I do a round of the cave, ducking a bit at the far side, but there's no evidence that this is anything but a perfectly ordinary hole in the ground.

"Nope," Bill says. "Not a single one."

"Well, damn," I mutter. "Guess I'll have to tell Dobby it's back to the drawing board."

"Why do you want magical crystals so badly, anyway?"

"It's for a personal project," I say. "I want to use them as a focus in a magical object."

"Isn't there anything else you can use?" Bill asks. He moves around, inspecting the room and flicking his wand here and there, to make sure he's eradicated all traces of the hostile magic.

"Maybe, but I don't know of anything," I say.

"Why would whatever a first year is planning require something like that?" Bill says. "They're rare and hard to find, especially any of high quality."

"I know," I say with a groan. "Don't I know. My house-elf has spent months looking for them."

"Well, show me what you've got in mind," Bill says a little dubiously. "Whatever plans you've drawn up. Maybe I can help."


	14. Elven Spring

After handing off my lightsaber notes to Bill — well, to be specific, drawing them up and handing them off — I settle in to my room in Malfoy Manor for the night. It's been an exhausting day, and I pull out Tom Riddle's diary.

"It's the Vernal Equinox," I write. "I've just finished having my house de-cursed and re-warded."

"Who cursed your house?" Tom replies.

"Voldemort."

"Are you certain?" Tom writes back.

"The curse control complex was in Parseltongue," I write. "I don't know of any other Parselmouths I've pissed off lately."

"I see," Tom replies. "Aside from your archnemesis, have you run across anyone you want to murder yet?"

I snort aloud. "He's not my archnemesis and I don't want to murder him. Honestly, knowing my luck, after I've already resurrected you, people will be lining up from here to Diagon Alley trying to annoy me enough to off them."

"You had better actually resurrect me, after all that."

"Yeah, don't worry," I write. "One way or another, it shall be done, I promise."

"Good," Tom writes. "How are the preparations coming along?"

"I meant to speak with Cassie tonight and hammer out the details with her."

"You haven't sorted this out before now?"

"I'm stuck in school most of the time," I reply. "And Cassie has been staying in Malfoy Manor. I haven't really had a secure means of communicating with her without fear of interception. I definitely don't trust to put anything sensitive to the post owls."

"What about having a house-elf deliver messages?" Tom asks.

"Considered that, too. I don't trust that, either. Also considered writing in an obscure language that we both know, but I don't trust any random person not to understand Sanskrit, and it would still be obvious we were trying to hide something."

"You are quite paranoid," Tom comments.

"You're damned right I am."

"Do you know much about ritual magic?"

"No, Cassie is the expert on that."

"Who is this Cassie, exactly?" Tom asks.

"Cassiopeia Black."

"You trust her?"

"Implicitly."

"Then leave me with her when you go back to school, and we will work out the details," Tom suggests.

"I'll go talk to her now."

I fold up the book and head down the hallway to Cassie's room and rap on the door, but there is no response, so I take a peek in the library instead. The sounds of an argument between two young voices using words few ten-year-olds would know echo out into the hallway.

"I hope you two aren't about to start cursing at one another in here," I comment.

"You are the only one here inclined to use harsh language," Abraxas replies.

I smirk. "Very funny. You're as bad as Blaise."

"Fair retribution for your insistence upon the foolish nickname."

"Far be it from me to complain, then," I say. "What were you guys arguing about? Magical theory? Pureblood politics? Quidditch teams?"

"None of those," Cassie says. "We were discussing clothing. He insisted that I should dress better and that we should go to Diagon Alley to collect a whole new wardrobe for me. I didn't see any point in it."

Abraxas puffs up. "One should always wear attire appropriate to one's station."

"Oh, and here I thought you might have been arguing about me," I say.

Abraxas snorts. "Contrary to your narcissistic view of the universe, we _do_ have activities which do not involve you when you are not looking."

"Well," I say. "Your mom."

Abraxas rolls his eyes. "Even from you, that is a weak comeback, even if it was a terrible pun regarding my daughter-in-law."

"Boys," Cassie says with a snort. "If you two are quite done verbally sparring…"

"That's a rather dignified way to put it," Abraxas says.

"You know what, I'm just going to leave this with you and let you get back to arguing or go shopping or whatever it is you're going to do." I pull out the diary and hand it to Cassie.

"What is this?" Cassie asks, taking it from my hand and examining it curiously.

I try to think of how to explain it. "Complicated."

Cassie gives me a look.

I sigh and smirk. "Of course you won't let me get away with just saying that. Alright. It contains the memories of a friend. You can write in it to talk to him. He wants to talk to you."

Cassie raises an eyebrow and turns the book over in her hands again. "T. M. Riddle, huh? Well, this I have to see." She pulls out a quill and speaks aloud as she writes, "Hello. I am Cassiopeia Black." Soon enough, she's started up an animated conversation.

"Should we leave you two alone for a while?" Abraxas asks.

Cassie makes a shooing gesture with her left hand.

* * *

"So, let me gets this straight," Cassie says.

"Whatever it is, the answer is probably 'yes'," I say.

"Well, it's a rather complicated situation and you kind of left me to untangle it myself," Cassie says.

"I _told_ you it was complicated."

"Just because something is complicated doesn't mean it can't be summarized, though." Cassie lays out the diary on the table. "This is a Horcrux created by Lord Voldemort."

"What's a Horcrux?" I ask.

"An object that contains a piece of someone's soul," Cassie says. "Very dark magic. Not many people know how to make one, nor would dare to do so. So long as the Horcrux exists, the person cannot be truly killed."

"I see," I say, looking at the diary thoughtfully. "And so it can be used to resurrect someone."

"What sort of future were you living in that you had Voldemort and Grindelwald as your friends?" Cassie wonders, then shakes her head. "No, you don't even know yourself, do you. You just want to bring them together again based on some vague, fleeting memories that you can't grasp the details of."

I look at the floor. "Yeah, pretty much."

Cassie sighs. "Much as you call yourself a Dark Lord, I refuse to believe that in any given timeline, you were ever outright _evil_ ,so to speak. Your impassioned speeches are entirely too genuine for that. You might have done terrible things, but I don't think you would have done them without good reason. Grindelwald didn't believe himself to be evil, either, though. And much as I cannot support his methods, he did intend to change things for the Greater Good."

"Maybe sometimes I was worse than others," I say quietly. "There have been times that I allowed emotion — anger, hatred, revenge — to guide my actions too much."

"So long as you realize it," Cassie says. "As for Voldemort, I can see how his sanity was damaged if he split his soul to create a Horcrux like this. If he were resurrected using it, however, he would likely be at least somewhat saner in some ways, if only because he's younger and had not gone down the same roads. That's no guarantee that he _wouldn't_ wind up going down those roads again, but if we were able to ground him we could probably prevent that. I would still advise you to strongly reconsider doing this."

"I made a promise," I say. "And I will fulfill it, one way or another."

Cassie sighs. "Yes, that's very honorable of you. I do hope that honor is not misplaced. Just so you know, though, I don't like being roped into things without at least being asked first."

"This is asking," I say.

"Alright, fine," Cassie says. "And if I don't help, you'll wind up having to make a human sacrifice or put together your own ritual that might go badly. So in the interests of preventing something worse from happening, I will help."

I hear someone clear their throat, and a small voice says, "Might I interject here?"

A house-elf steps out from behind a bookshelf and approaches the table. A maroon beach towel drapes around his body like a robe, but unlike most house-elves I've seen, he stands straight and proud, somehow managing to make wearing a towel look dignified. One look at his face, and I immediately recognize him as being the same one that I saw in the mirror.

"How long have you been listening?" Cassie asks.

"Long enough," says the house-elf. "My name is Rispy."

"I remember you," I say quietly.

"How much do you remember?" Rispy asks.

"Bits and pieces," I say. "Nothing as coherent as I'd wish. But I'm not going to forget anymore. What do _you_ know about it?"

Rispy shrugs. "Enough."

"You seem to remember something, at least, unlike Tom and Cassie," I say.

"Yeah," Rispy says. "I remember everything."

"What, _everything_?" I ask incredulously.

"Yes, everything," Rispy says. "Yes, really. I've been linked to you since very early on, riding down the threads of time. And I don't think you need me to tell you that that's been a very long time. That doesn't mean I have all the answers, though. We don't always wind up in timelines that are identical to ones we visited before. I've seen Hogwarts teaching people how to use the Force, the One Power, Shaping, psionics, and even as an ordinary Muggle school more times than you'd imagine. I've been an elf, a dwarf, a servile, a Twi'lek, a troll, a goblin…"

"Why didn't you reveal yourself sooner?" I ask.

"You don't usually remember much," Rispy says. "I used to hook up with you a lot more, early on. But it got frustrating, you know? Seeing you forget, again and again. More often, I do my own thing and make my own arrangements."

"I'd imagine I'd do the same in those circumstances," Cassie says. "You must have learned a lot, if you remember all that."

Rispy doesn't comment on that. "I came here to check up on Tom Riddle's diary, only to discover you already had it. I'd decided to leave it for last this time."

"Last what?" I ask.

"Horcrux," Rispy says. "I've already collected the others. Fortunately, they were more or less where they usually are in timelines like this."

"Wait, Voldemort made more than one Horcrux?" Cassie's eyes widen. "No wonder he became so inhuman."

Rispy brings out a bag and starts pulling items out of it and placing them on the table next to the diary. A ring, a goblet, a diadem, a locket. "This last one's kind of morbid." He pulls out a small human skull, as that of a child, with a lightning-bolt shaped crack in the forehead. "Soul fragment is still in here, even though little Harry is dead. I hate timelines in which Harry died young."

"Ugh." Cassie makes a face. "Harry told me about the death of his counterpart but I didn't imagine I'd have to deal with… that."

"Just be glad that I made sure it was a clean skull and that I didn't just put a rotting severed head on your table."

"Thank you so much," I say dryly.

"Voldemort made _six_ Horcruxes?" Cassie says, looking over the arrayed objects. "That's insane. He must have been trying for the magic number, but that would have left him with only a sliver of himself."

"If you want to get strictly technical, the skull isn't a true Horcrux," Rispy says. "It contains a piece of his soul, but he didn't create it intentionally."

"Still, with all of these, we could put him back into almost the same state he was before he made his first Horcrux," Cassie says. "He'd only be missing the main piece of soul."

"Who probably isn't likely to cooperate," I add.

Cassie nods. "Yes. The diary here is the only fully sentient piece." She takes a deep breath. "I can work with this. I'll get to work on this ritual while you're at school and have it ready by Beltane. Having the final piece would wind up reviving him whole and strong again, but I can't say what it would do to his mind. These six pieces will suffice, though."

"Rispy…" I peer at him plaintively. "Can you tell me about my previous lives?"

"Nope," Rispy replies.

"Why not?"

"Would you rather spend your existence listening to stories about what might have been, or live it for yourself?"

I pause thoughtfully. "Point."

"If you've lived so long, don't you already know the sort of ritual we will need?" Cassie asks.

"Nope," Rispy says.

"You never learned about ritual magic? Even in a theoretical sense, if you couldn't use it yourself?"

"That's not my business," Rispy says. "Even in forms where I could use magic, I generally used a sword, crossbow, gun, or whatever else. I'm no mage."

"Why didn't you learn, though?" Cassie wonders. "I would have learned everything I could."

"You would," Rispy says. "Sometimes knowledge isn't enough. You can look at a series of runes and see a coherent pattern. I can't, nor do I want to." He points to me. "And that man never learned how to shoot straight in a million years."

I smirk at him.

Rispy goes on, "But, just knowing how to write a set of runes doesn't mean you'd know when was the most appropriate time to use them, or the consequences for doing so. I've spent ages examining timelines and watching what plays out, what small changes can turn into big changes, how each universe might be different from one another."

"You could predict what might happen?" I ask.

"Nope," Rispy says. "I can extrapolate on likelihoods and possibilities. But I don't know what will happen, or even what should happen."

"It's kind of hard to wrap my mind around, that _you've_ been through all these things," I say.

"So have you."

"But you still remember them."

Rispy smirks. "Would you prefer I play dumb?"

"Not really, no," I say.

"Your resurrection ritual will work better with the rest of the Horcruxes, and I wasn't about to just leave them as an anonymous Yule present tied with a bow."

I chuckle. "You tried that once, so you know it wouldn't have worked very well?"

"Oh, hell no," Rispy says. "If there is one thing I have learned, it's that _you_ are the most unpredictable force in the multiverse."

"That's… reassuring? I think?" I say, raising an eyebrow. "Why is that? I mean, you'd think you'd have figured out my typical behavior patterns by now."

"You can as quickly go from saying killing is wrong to slaughtering people," Rispy says. "You'll spend decades studying then suddenly decide to up and go on an adventure. You wind up cycling through all the Houses at Hogwarts with no reason anyone outside your head can adequately explain. And I have not mentioned it recently, but you are completely insane."

I can't help but grin. "It's good to have you back, Rispy."

"Even if you don't remember much, as per usual," Rispy says with a chuckle. "I'll take your word on it that you won't be forgetting everything again. This is different, though. You've been doing some things I've _never_ seen you do before. Well, let me restate that. I've seen you do some weird, stupid, random things that I can't explain. I have not seen you try to make a lightsaber before or anything else that displayed clear and precise knowledge of a different universe. Never waving a wand and throwing curses at Sith." He lets out a heavy breath. "As much as I couldn't complain of my life, it will be nice to not be the only one who remembers anymore."

"You know about the lightsaber?" I wonder.

"Dobby told me," Rispy says.

"How _did_ you become linked to Harry and travel through time with him?" Cassie wonders.

"Some sort of ritual," Rispy says. "Don't ask me for details. All I remember was that it took a lot of magic and it was painful."

"Well enough to know that it's possible, though," Cassie says. "Does it not become tiresome, having your existence linked to another person, being dragged through time beyond your control?"

"The only thing that grows tiresome is being alone in it," Rispy says. "After all, even if you're traveling with a group of friends, you always have the option of going your own way. But if no one else remembers, you might as well be alone. Still, it's not like none of you are ever present. I'm still talking to Cassie, even if she doesn't remember me."

Cassie looks to me. "Your highly eloquent and knowledgeable house-elf is far more proof in what you claim than anything you could have said."

"Most people aren't going to listen to a house-elf, no matter how eloquent and knowledgeable," Rispy says. "Also means you can get away with a lot more as people politely pretend they don't see you even if you're in plain sight. Anyway, I'm going to call myself the Potters' house-elf now, since I've revealed myself and you won't get confused as to me showing up."

"Say I got another house-elf to help with things now that I have a big house?" I suggest.

"Yeah, something like that," Rispy says. "Let Dobby fix up the house. I don't like doing housework unless I'm really bored. He probably wasn't going to find those crystals you were looking for anyway."

"Bill said he might be able to help," I say.

Rispy nods. "Yeah, he's probably a good bet. I'll meet up with him and we'll see what we can do. I wouldn't mind having a lightsaber myself."

"You know how to use a lightsaber?"

"Of course," Rispy says with a smile. "There was a time you rescued a Twi'lek slave and took him as your apprentice…"

* * *

"I wish I could come spend the holidays with you," Hermione says. "Are you sure Mr. Malfoy won't reconsider?"

"It doesn't matter if he does or doesn't," I say, slathering entirely too much syrup onto my pancakes, "though I hope he'll come around in time. You'll always be welcome in _my_ house."

Hermione smiles. "Thank you, Harry."

"My house-elves will have the place cleaned up and ready for Beltane," I say, grinning at Rispy sitting at my right hand side. Today he's dressed up in actual clothing, properly fitted for his size, with a tanned leather jerkin and a long knife hanging from a belt.

Ron takes a seat at the table and says, "Has anyone seen my rat?"

"Nope," Rispy says quickly.

"House-elves?" Hermione wonders, looking at Rispy curiously. "I haven't read about those yet."

"They do work for you around the house," Draco says. "Every good wizarding family has at least one." He glances at Ron. "Well. The ones who can afford them, at least. No offense."

"You mean they're slaves?" Hermione sputters.

"Hey," Rispy interrupts. "I'm not his slave. I'm his friend."

"Is that why we have a strangely-dressed house-elf eating at the Slytherin table today?" Blaise wonders.

"No, that's because there's pancakes today," Rispy says. "Pass me that syrup, would you?" He takes the syrup I offer and pours it over his own plate.

"You're positively drowning those pancakes, the both of you," Hermione says. "That much sugar is bad for your teeth."

"I give no fucks," I say with a grin, spearing a piece and popping it into my mouth. "Rispy, not to complain or anything about having you hanging around like this, but I thought you were going to be a little more subtle?"

"I give no fucks," Rispy says. "I can pretend to be a good, ordinary house-elf any old time I want."

"On the other hand, maybe if you eat some more sugar, it will make your tongues sweeter, too," Hermione says, rolling her eyes.

"Wait, isn't that _my_ house-elf?" Pansy puts in, leaning over. "I mean, my family's, that is. The new one we'd just gotten." She narrows her eyes. "The one who ruined my room before he disappeared."

"Oh, are you talking about the unauthorized bonding ritual that didn't work because I was already bound to Harry?"

"What?" Pansy stares. "But my father said that was a feral elf."

Hermione narrows her eyes. "Is your father dealing in capturing slaves?"

"He said the elf was just lost and confused without a master…" Pansy says weakly. "He said they need masters or they'll go crazy without knowing what to do."

"That sounds like the sort of excuses a slaver would make," Hermione snaps.

"Hey, you're a Mudblood, you didn't even know house-elves existed five minutes ago," Pansy retorts.

Rispy says aside to me, "You think we should stop them yet?"

"How can you cause a scene just by sitting here eating pancakes?" I wonder.

"Causing a scene would be putting someone's eye out," Rispy says.

"I wouldn't take bets on whether that's likely to happen or not," I say.

"But house-elves _like_ to work," Ron interjects.

"It's exploitation!" Hermione replies.

I clear my throat and gesture toward the house-elf. "You know, Rispy is right here. Why don't you just ask him?"

Everyone turns to look at Rispy, who lazily gives a wave.

"Rispy?" Hermione says tentatively. "What do you think of the way house-elves are treated?"

"I thought you were never going to ask," Rispy says with a grin. "What I think, is that you should sit down, eat your pancakes, and thank the house-elves who made them. They'll be smiling all day."

"But… slave labor…" Hermione says, looking down at her plate with a faint expression of horror.

I rub my face. "Hermione, you're not going to change the world over breakfast. And you don't need to change the world by yourself."

She looks up at me. "You would…"

I lean over toward her and hold out my hand. "We can make the world a better place. Together. Between us all, we can make a difference."

"Thank you," Hermione says quietly.

"Well, there's a wonderfully idealistic line if I ever heard one," Blaise says lightly.

Pansy groans. "Merlin, I'm sorry I even opened my mouth."

"I'm not sorry I ruined your room," Rispy says brightly.

"And got the other house-elves not to fix it so I had to do it myself," Pansy adds.

"Yep!"

"I hate you so much," Pansy says flatly. "I didn't know you belonged to Harry, though. I guess you must've been upset about being kept from your master."

"We should get to class," Hermione says.

My friends finish up their breakfast and head off toward class, but I trail behind them, watching Rispy thoughtfully.

"Did you know that was going to happen?" I ask quietly.

"Yep," Rispy replies.

"Why did you destroy Pansy's room?"

"A lesson in humility always makes her a better person," Rispy says.

* * *

"So g-g-g-good of you to c-c-come speak with me, Mr. P-P-Potter," Quirrell says.

"I'm here because you called me into your office, Professor," I say, looking around the room with forced nonchalance. The weird masks that adorn the walls seem to look back at me, as though watching my every movement. They probably are. Tense as a spring, I wish I had a lightsaber once again.

"I wanted to c-c-c-c-congratulate you on your new home," Quirrell says.

I sigh. "Professor, we are not friends. You didn't call me in here on the pretense of being friendly."

"Irregardless—"

"Professor," I interrupt. "I'm going to make you an offer, so you better be paying attention because I'm not going to make it again. And don't bother stuttering because I'm talking to Voldemort here and it's just going to piss me off."

"What— How—"

I hold up a finger. "Don't bother asking. Voldemort, you want to live? You want immortality?"

Quirrellmort takes a deep breath. "I know about your ritual."

"Yeah," I say. "Your stupid stunt with the traps on my house was pretty pointless, too. I would imagine you didn't realize I can speak Parseltongue."

He glares at me. "I was wondering how you managed to de-curse the place. I didn't think the Weasley boy was that competent in and of himself."

"It probably would have killed him if he'd tried it and I hadn't been there, yes," I say.

"So, Mr. Potter, what exactly are you offering me?" Quirrellmort asks, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the desk, steepling his hands in front of him.

"Resurrection ritual performed on Beltane," I say.

"And why should I believe you would do this for me, were you even capable of it?"

"I have your Horcruces," I say.

"Horcruxes?" Quirrellmort says, eyes widening. "How do you even— No, how would you even know what they are, never mind that they exist?"

"You split your soul into seven pieces and placed those pieces into objects, one of them accidentally," I say. "Ring, cup, locket, diadem, diary, and… scar." Do I really want to tell him that this world's Harry Potter is dead?

His features poorly mask terror, and his eyes come to rest on my forehead. "And you have them."

"Now, you've been trying to kill me all year, though obviously none of your attempts actually stuck," I say, "but I don't really have anything against you otherwise. Still, I hold no loyalty to you, and I'm not going to insult you by trying to convince you that I want to resurrect you purely out of altruism."

"So," he says, laying his hands flat on the desk. "What do you want in exchange?" He has to realize his bargaining position is very slim.

"Well, for one thing, it should go saying to quit trying to kill me. It's annoying."

"Of course," Quirrellmort says dryly.

"There's a matter I require your assistance with," I say slowly. "Because you know far more about Soul Magic than I do."

"If you know little about Soul Magic, how am I to expect that you can perform a ritual to resurrect me?"

"Because I'm not the one who created or will be performing the ritual, although I will assist as best as I can," I say. "Now… I think there's something wrong with my soul. I don't know what. I think I must have done something to it at some point that resulted in something of a mess, but now I can't remember what."

Quirrellmort peers at me intently. "You did something? You are not merely an eleven year old child."

"Amnesiac time traveler, try to keep up," I say. "You didn't seriously think I was just a weird little boy, did you?"

"I had to wonder."

"Still, surely you can feel the connection between us as well as I, can't you?" I ask.

He looks at me closely, examining me. "I am uncertain. But I must take your word on that." He pauses. "You are from the future?"

"Such as it is," I say. "And no, before you ask, I remember almost nothing. The amnesiac part there."

"I see. Irregardless, why did you not come to me sooner? Before I had… _annoyed_ you with attempted murder?"

"I didn't have your Horcruces yet, and I didn't have the ritual prepared," I say. "Promises to be taken on faith are for diaries who can't do anything about it if you don't follow through."

"You have been speaking with it?"

"Your younger self has helped to arrange things, yes," I say.

"Must _all_ of my Horcruxes be used to accomplish this?" he asks. "Surely it would suffice to use merely one of them and keep the rest…"

"You could, yes, if you want to come back greatly weakened and warped," I say, grinning. "If you use all of them, you shall come back as strong or stronger than you ever were before."

Quirrellmort looks thoughtful, considering, leaning back in his chair. "Very well. I agree to your terms. Assist in my resurrection, and I will examine your soul and attempt to repair it." He adds in a quiet grumble, "I will cease attempting to kill you regardless, as it does not appear to be accomplishing much."

I nod. "Then be at Caer Danas on Beltane, and it shall be done."


	15. Fire

I arrive at Caer Danas with Hermione in the evening in late April after the train brings us home for Beltane, only to find that people are already waiting for me there.

"Did everyone move in while I wasn't looking?" I wonder, looking over those assembled in the main room.

There's Cassie and Brax, poring over some pieces of parchment along with a boy their age that I don't recognize but who seems familiar. Rispy stands off to one side in his warrior gear as if guarding the door. On the other side of the room, Dobby is starving tea and biscuits to a somewhat bedraggled man who also seems familiar. Really, it should be more notable when people _don't_ seem familiar. These two, however, seem more familiar than usual, almost as if I could spit out their names on the tip of my tongue.

"Rispy brought us." Cassie bounces over to Hermione. "Hello! You must be the friend Harry said he was inviting."

"Yes, I'm Hermione Granger."

"I'm Cassie Black. These are my friends, Brax Malfoy, and Gerry Boltwood."

"Abraxas," says the blond boy sourly.

"Is Gerry really a nickname for Gerard?" says the other boy, grinning wildly. He's also blond, actually, but while Abraxas has platinum blond hair, almost white, Gerard's hair is butter-yellow.

"And that's my father, Sirius Black." She gestures to the man, who puts down his tea to wave.

"Hey, kids!" Sirius says, shoving the entire biscuit in his mouth. "Good to see you!"

"Ugh, swallow your food, Sirius," Abraxas says disgustedly. "I swear you are more of a child than I am, and I'm ten."

Sirius ignores him and comes over to look me up and down. "So you're little Harry, are you? You've got Lily's eyes, that's for sure."

"Yes, it's wonderful to see you all, I just kind of wish someone would have mentioned it!" I say, grinning. "There's owls available if you want to write, you know, guys."

"Try to keep up!" Cassie says with a giggle. "It took a little bit to get my father released from prison — they didn't even give him a trial!"

"The three of you will be coming to Hogwarts next year?" Hermione says.

"Yes!" Gerard says. "And I'm totally a Muggleborn orphan and I'm really excited about it!"

As they go off to chatter with one another, I pull Rispy aside. "This is your doing, isn't it," I say quietly. "You've been busy, haven't you."

Rispy shrugs. "I figured you might want them around."

"I don't even know who they are," I say.

"You did, and you will," Rispy says, chuckling.

"I'd best go have a chat with this mystery boy, then."

I approach the group and say, "Hey, Gerard! You said you're Muggleborn, right? Do you like _Star Wars_?"

"Do I ever!" he replies.

On that excuse, I drag him off to another room where I can speak with him privately, which turns out to be the library. I'm finding my way around this house without even thinking about it. We take seats at a table, immaculately cleaned despite the house having been left abandoned until recently.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Straight to the point, I see," the boy says. "I should think that you'd know, seeing as you knew me well enough to send your dragon Patronus to me, brimming with enough light magic to choke a Dementor."

I stare at him, and whisper, "Gellert?"

"Ah, you do know me after all." He grins widely. "Now, I could pose the same question back to you. Who are _you_? Not that I could complain of suddenly finding myself ten years old again for no apparent reason, mind you."

"I'm Harry Potter," I say.

"I know _that_ ," Gellert says. "Cassie said I'd have to ask you myself. So I'm asking."

"Time travel."

"Okay. Well. Time Magic would certainly explain the de-aging spells. I take it you must've gone to the past, too?" He gets a mischievous grin on his face. "Say, I bet you saw a lot of cool movies in the future, too!"

"Gellert, you were locked away in a prison for fifty years," I say. "How do you know so much about Muggle pop culture?"

"I had television. I had nothing to do for fifty years but watch television."

"Sith's blood," I utter. "No wonder you're insane."

"Hey! I resemble that remark."

"So, do you know what we're planning for Beltane?" I ask.

Gellert nods. "Cassie filled me in on that, at least. I helped make a few adjustments to her ritual. She's damned good, though. I'm surprised she knows so much about dark magic, even with her ancestry."

"She spent her life doing magical research," I say. "She's brilliant."

"Yeah, no kidding," Gellert says. "So, does the form of time travel you're using allow changing the past, or does it operate off of stable time loops?"

"Kind of neither?" I say. "Time branches into alternate universes. So it effectively _seems_ like you're changing the past, but the timeline you were in before still exists."

"A fine distinction from the perspective of the person doing the time traveling, but I get it," Gellert says. "Cool. So, how different are some of these alternate timelines?"

"Completely unrecognizable," I say.

"So… they say you're calling yourself Darth Revan," Gellert says. "More importantly, _are_ you actually a Sith Lord? Does the _Star Wars_ universe exist?"

I sigh. "Why didn't I guess this was where you were going with this line of questioning?"

"Come on, you've got to tell me!" Gellert says, grinning wildly.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, it really exists, and yes, I really am a Sith Lord. Happy?"

Gellert practically squees. "Not until I get to go there."

"You're incorrigible."

"What else is out there? Do you suppose all the places imagined in fiction really exist? Like maybe their authors were just dreaming of other worlds?"

"I don't know," I say. "Probably."

"This is going to be great!" Gellert says. "Just think of all the awesome stuff out there!"

"I didn't mention I was going anywhere or taking you anywhere," I say.

"Aw, c'mon, you can't just de-age me and drag me out of prison and tell me all this stuff and leave me behind! I don't wanna stay in this world. There's nothing for me here now. I mean, sure, I've got a new life and identity, and all—"

"I'm kidding," I say, chuckling. "Of course you can come with me."

"Oh," Gellert says, then laughs. "You had me going there for a minute."

* * *

"So this is what your house looks like on the inside?" Draco says. "Nice to see it fixed up."

My classmates and their parents have arrived on Thursday. We've made a big event of it, in part celebrating getting my new house presentable. Dobby has put up decorations, flowers adorn the gazebo, and Rispy has even changed back into his maroon towel. He caused enough of a scene already that the children wouldn't be surprised at seeing him dressed up in leather, but at least the adults won't look at him twice like this.

"We need to speak in private about our plans for Beltane," I say quietly to Lucius.

"Of course, Mr. Potter," Lucius says.

I lead him off to the library. Hermione would normally be loitering in here making use of the old books the Potters left behind, but I shooed her out to go play with the other children for once. I go over to a table, but I don't bother to sit. After draping my arm over the back of the chair for a few moments, I turn around to face Lucius.

"We're going to be resurrecting Voldemort," I say.

Lucius misses a beat, and can only manage, "My lord?"

"It goes without saying that I don't want anyone to know about it or be involved who can't protect their mind," I say. "They'll have to be Obliviated if it's really necessary to involve them."

"Are you not Lord Voldemort?" Lucius asks.

I chuckle softly. "No, I'm not Lord Voldemort. It's… complicated. And I'm not saying that to cop out of giving an explanation, but because I don't really understand it all myself. I'm surprised Abraxas didn't fill you in, though. He's been working with Cassie and Gellert to prepare the ritual."

"Gellert?"

"As in Grindelwald, yes."

Lucius barely manages to keep his expression neutral. "It seems I have missed a fair bit, yes."

"I don't want the children harmed," I insist. "The ones who are actually children need to stay out of this. Not the least of which because Dumbledore might find out and I don't want to have to Obliviate _them_ if it's not necessary. Regardless, this is going to be dangerous, no two ways about that. I don't want a repeat of what happened last time we tried out an untested ritual. That worked out well enough, but it could have gone a lot worse, even with the precautions Cassie and I took."

"Of course, my lord," Lucius says.

I cock my head at him. "Still calling me that, no matter how many times I've said I'm not Lord Voldemort?"

Lucius pauses to look at me thoughtfully before replying, "You are… preferable to Lord Voldemort. I do hope you know what you're doing with him, though."

I incline my head toward him and say quietly, "So do I."

* * *

In the pre-dawn light on the grounds of Caer Danas, in a clearing some ways away from the house, an unlikely circle of wizards has gathered.

Three children who are not children — Cassiopeia Black goes over some notes in last-minute double-checking her rune-work. Gellert is attempting to strike up a conversation with the skull of little Harry Potter, at least until Abraxas rolls his eyes and grabs it out of his hands and puts it into position. Quirinus Quirrell glances around nervously, his eyes twitching to and fro, while next to him, Lucius Malfoy remains unflappably dignified.

Finally, Rispy stands off to the side, dressed in his warrior gear unashamedly, arms folded across his chest and watching the scene closely.

"Are you sure this will work with a house-elf in one of the circle positions?" Abraxas asks Cassie.

"It will work," Cassie says.

"Their magic isn't like ours, though."

Cassie sighs and repeats more firmly, "It will work. He doesn't even need to actually do anything but lend his power. I'm the one that's going to actually be weaving the magic. I can worry about that myself."

"If you say so," Abraxas says dubiously.

The Horcruxes are laid out in a circle, carefully positioned amidst the runes. I have to wonder if the setup really needed to be this complex, or if Cassie is just taking every necessary precaution. Either way, the ritual layout is mind-boggling.

Quirrell mumbles to himself, his turban twitching and making rumblings of its own, but I can't make out any words. I don't envy him, and I have to wonder if Quirrell will survive this ritual.

"Dawn approaches," Lucius says. "Is everything in place?"

"I feel like I've waited a million years for this," I breathe.

"You have," Rispy says quietly.

"We're ready," Cassie says, moving to the head of the circle. "Everyone, take your positions."

I kneel in my assigned place, in front of the skull, glancing down at it somewhat uneasily. This Harry had a piece of Voldemort in him, and probably never even realized it. How would his life have turned out differently if he hadn't? How would mine? How _did_ mine? How did my original life in this universe go? Which House was I in? Who were my friends? Was I a chosen one marked by prophecy, or just Harry?

"My friends," Cassie begins. "I call upon you, on this day, for a rite of life. I call upon the fires of life, as the phoenix ever renews itself…"

Her words ring out clear and true into the brisk morning air, a musical chant rising into a fervent rhythm. Around us, runes flare into light one by one, blazing into a rainbow of flame as it spirals into the center of the circle. It builds into a bonfire as Cassie's words escalate into almost a wail, wind and magic swirling and whipping about us. The six Horcruxes glow and let off wisps of greenish light toward the fire, and another wisp emerges from Quirrell's head.

Everything seems to be going smoothly, until I feel a tugging sensation deep within me. First it feels as though something is slithering through my soul, and then — agonizing, blinding _pain_. What the hell is happening? Did something go wrong? I'm being torn up from the inside out!

"It's destabilizing," Gellert's voice comes as though from very far away.

"Don't move, you fool," Abraxas snaps. "Do you want to kill us all?"

"That might just happen anyway!" Gellert retorts.

I scream, clutching at my head. I feel like I should be bleeding from every orifice, but my face is dry. "Stop stop stop _stop stop stop STOP STOP STOP!_ " I clutch at the ground and try to claw my way out of the circle.

_I did not come this far just to destroy myself!_

"Harry, no!" Cassie cries.

"Shit," Rispy utters. Small arms drag me away from the circle. "I should have realized. Fuck."

My very soul feels like it's on fire, far worse than any Cruciatus Curse. I clench my eyes against the dizzying pain and mercifully pass out.

* * *

I wake up with a gasp, eyes snapping open to see the ceiling of my room in Caer Danas. My soul _still_ feels like it's on fire. I curl up into a fetal position and roll out of bed.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"Lexen," says Rispy, hand on my shoulder. I didn't even see him appear.

"What the fuck happened?" I manage, clutching my head to my chest.

"You have a piece of his soul in you too," Rispy says. "I guess the ritual tried to rip it out of you."

"Fuck, help me, I can't—"

I black out again.

* * *

I wake screaming in pain again.

"Lexen!" Rispy says, putting his hands on his chest. "Focus! I'll bring Cassie but you need to try not to reset again."

"How the fuck am I supposed to control that?" I grate out.

"Stay calm," Rispy says. "Don't panic. Focus on something. Anything."

Rispy disappears to leave me alone again. Burning up inside. I don't know what the fuck he was talking about. I can't control when I reset, can I? Well, damnit, of course I can. Just, when I wind up with blazing agony like this, it comes as instinctive to try to get away from it. Is that it? I know I didn't really think about it too hard when the Cruciatus Curse was used on me. That was just pain. I knew it was just pain. But this? What sort of damage was actually done here?

Stay calm, he said. Don't panic, he said. How can I stay calm when I feel like I've had acid poured into my soul? I didn't even realize that _could_ hurt.

Either it's slowly starting to ease off, or I'm starting to get used to it. I roll out of bed and try to stand up, only to fall to my knees again. Fuck.

When have I ever been one to tell myself I can't do something?

"Harry?" Cassie rushes up to me. "Harry!"

"Cassie…" I whisper.

"What in the world happened?" Cassie wonders, helping me back into bed.

"The ritual… went wrong somehow," I rasp.

"But we haven't performed the ritual— oh. You came back in time."

"Fuck, it hurts." I flop weakly into the bed again. "I feel like my soul was ripped apart."

"I don't see how it should have done anything to you, unless… You have a piece of him in you?"

"He does," Rispy confirms.

"Why didn't you say something?" Cassie wonders, turning to him.

Rispy shakes his head. "I didn't realize what might happen."

"The ritual must have become unstable with eight pieces instead of seven," Cassie says. "And tried to merge that piece as well, which would have resulted in more than there should have been."

"Can you fix it?" I ask, staring intently into her face. Something to focus on. Something to anchor me, even as I feel like I might be swept away.

"I don't know," Cassie says, sighing. "If it's any consolation, I don't think it's likely to get _worse_ if it's not fixed immediately."

"Maybe Tom can fix it," Rispy says. "He's the one who set it up in the first place."

"Why does it _still_ hurt?" I groan.

"It's like a wound," Cassie says. "Maybe it would heal on its own, but I'm not going to take the chance. I don't think resurrecting Tom would cause any further harm to you, especially if you're kept well away from the circle. In the meanwhile, I can put on… a temporary bandage, let me see…" She pulls out her wand and murmurs a few words.

The pain dulls, like a soothing balm spreading over me. I breathe out heavily and relax my tense muscles. "That… yeah, that helped a lot." It still hurts, but it's manageable.

"It didn't solve anything," Cassie says. "It just stopped some of the pain. I wouldn't recommend trying to do much magic until Tom looks at it, just in case."

"Just in case. How about I just pass out, just in case?"

"That might be best, yes," Cassie says.

"Yeah, okay," I say, and proceed to do just that.

* * *

I wake again to a dull, throbbing pain that seems everywhere and nowhere. Sunlight streams in through the windows, the emerald green curtains in my room pulled back. The air is sweltering — it's either unseasonably warm today, or feeling like I was burning up inside is screwing with my senses.

"Ah, Revan, you're awake. I was wondering if you would wake up on your own or if we would eventually have to revive you somehow."

Sitting on the edge of my bed is a man, gazing at me with warm brown eyes, black hair tousled about his handsome face.

"Tom?" I breathe.

"Tom, is it?" He chuckles. "Fine, then I shall call you Harry."

"Would you prefer Voldemort?" I ask.

He shrugs. "I've considered that it may be best not to make it obvious that I'm back just yet, particularly with me looking like this again. Particularly with _you_ having unexpectedly changing the game here. Still, I will prefer Voldemort in private, thank you. I surely won't insist that a fellow Dark Lord call me 'my lord' though."

"Voldemort, then," I say.

"And…" he goes on, holding out a hand to look at it, flexing it. "You were right about the ritual, though. I feel stronger than I ever have. I was still a bit dubious about using all of the Horcruxes to resurrect me, but also using them all at the same time made it unnecessary to attempt to reabsorb them were I to wish to do so in the future for whatever reason. In hindsight, that may not have been an optimal means of attaining immortality."

"I'm glad to see you well, Voldemort."

"I've done a thorough examination of your soul, Revan, and I've come to a few conclusions," Voldemort says. "You do, indeed, have a piece of my soul attached, as well as Cassie and some others I cannot identify. The other people that you mentioned, I assume. You expected four, but there are, however, seven."

"Seven?" I repeat. "I honestly have no idea who the others might be, but maybe that should be no great surprise."

Voldemort nods in agreement. "There are pieces of your own soul missing as well. Considering how unbalanced I became after splitting my soul repeatedly, I can only presume that your mind remained more or less intact because you received soul grafts at the same time as the pieces were removed. That kept the amount of soul present balanced, at least, although what long-term consequences that might have had, I cannot begin to guess. That may, in and of itself, have been the cause of your amnesia."

"I see," I say. "What might be done about it?"

"Seven people, somewhere in the multiverse, have pieces of your soul attached to them," Voldemort says. "I've considered your case. The mutual soul bond. With some study, I may be able to duplicate it, but there are issues."

"Such as the fact that those pieces are missing in the first place," I finish.

"Right," Voldemort says. "And for starters is the fact that the damage done to your soul during the first attempt at my resurrection ritual was caused by a piece of my own soul — or that of an equivalent version of me — being torn out to rebuild me."

"Didn't the timeline that happened in, well, not have affected you?"

Voldemort taps his finger on his knee. "It did. Which is probably why it continued affecting you. I was also yanked back."

"You… were?"

"It's a mess," Voldemort says. "You'd implied that you had a piece of my soul inside you yourself, which was true. You didn't mention that you were an alternate version of the Harry Potter in this universe who died young, who _also_ had a piece of my soul inside him. Were you afraid I'd be upset at you for being the 'wrong' Harry Potter? Or was it too complicated?"

"I wasn't fully aware of the state of my soul myself and had no idea something like that might happen," I say. "A stupid mistake on my part, I guess."

"I'm a little surprised that you're even alive, with this sort of damage, but it's probably because of your own resilience, Revan," Voldemort says. "Quirrell did not survive." He shakes his head. "Ultimately, though, this only happened because of what _I_ did, or at least another version of me. This had already weakened your soul. And so, you were right to come to me. I don't imagine anyone else would know how to fix it."

"I'm not going to blame you, though."

He waves a finger at me. "Another thing I noticed, and recognized as my own handiwork. There's protective shields around your soul to preclude tampering from anyone who doesn't match my magical signature. You could have gone a thousand lifetimes and nothing could have touched you, until you came back to me. Understandable, if you were my source of immortality."

"I don't think it was just that, Voldemort," I protest weakly. "I mean, that was certainly a motivation I'm sure, but… Tom…"

"In a roundabout sort of way, you being here is not only a loss of your memories, but of my own. You seem to have known me very well, and yet, I no longer have those experiences."

I frown. "I didn't really think of it that way."

"To that end," Voldemort says, starting to pace around the room. "The best solution I can come up with is to somehow find the versions of us who have pieces of your soul, and presumably still have their memories of those events."

"What would happen to you, then?" I wonder.

"When you go back in time to a previous point, only your memories come, is that correct?"

"Right," I say.

"I suspect that I would go with you and merge with my other self, as I believe I did during the aborted resurrection ritual," Voldemort says. "I will set up a contingency plan if that doesn't work, a memory capsule of some sort. Not another Horcrux. While merging is fine, I would very much appreciate if _this_ version of me and my memories not simply cease to exist."

"I doubt you'd simply cease to exist," I say. "This world won't go anywhere if I were to leave it. I'd just not be here any longer."

"And that version of me also found a means of effective immortality that did not drive him mad," Voldemort points out.

"By grafting part of my own," I say with a smirk.

"It's doubtless not the only way," Voldemort says with a shrug. "A significant part of this version of me was preserved at the age of sixteen. In hindsight, given my degeneration, it may have been unwise to perform a soul magic ritual without full understanding of it or its consequences. I will be more careful in the future. I have no shortage of time, now. The ritual you performed with Cassie can be used as many times as necessary, I would assume?"

I chuckle. "You make a lot of assumptions. But I see no reason why not."

"I may be able to find a way to trace these soul pieces to their source," Voldemort says. "But first, I'm going to need to patch up your soul as best as I can with what I have on hand. Four of these soul grafts were done neatly, by a professional hand, naturally, but they weren't intended to be haphazardly ripped out like this. They were designed to be resilient, and not tear out easily, which was a definite downside when this sort of unexpected thing happened. The other three were slammed in with brute force, perhaps demonic pacts or the like, all from different sources."

"So, what, you're going to repeat the grafting?" I ask.

"Not precisely. There's too much of a ragged mess here for such a simple description." He sighs. "To put this into an analogy, imagine a quilt. A few squares have been neatly sewn onto it that weren't there originally, swapped for its original squares. Other squares have had foreign objects shoved under them and roughly tied shut again. And then, one of the replaced squares was grabbed with claws that tore right through part of the quilt, taking with it parts of both the square it tore at and the squares around it."

"That… would explain why it hurt so much," I say.

"Yes, indeed," Voldemort says. "That's why I have not simply started trying to sew things together haphazardly."

"So what were the Horcruxes like, then?"

"Cutting the entire blanket in half and shoving part of it in a box and locking it," Voldemort says. "I didn't realize it until too late. My intent had been to merely seal away a small part of myself. Instead, the diary wound up the strongest piece. Perhaps it's for the best that most of me remained untouched by the things I later did to myself. I performed many rituals that I believed would make me stronger, but they all came with a price, a price I no longer believe is necessary."

"I can't really say much about poor forethought and unintended consequences," I say with a weak smile.

"Your soul is already starting to try to heal itself," Voldemort says. "It would take time to do so on its own. I need to do this properly." He pauses to look at me thoughtfully. "Can you walk?"

"Think so," I say, slowly pushing myself out of bed. "A little woozy."

"I will set up a ritual for sunset that will hopefully heal this suitably."

"Thank you," I murmur.

* * *

"What happened?" Hermione asks. "Tom said you were sick."

"Hell of a time to get sick," Blaise says. "You've missed most of the party."

The whole world seems a little bit less than real, even the hardwood chair I'm sitting on. The colors blur together, and I could swear that I'm seeing colors that don't exist.

I reply, "I'd rather still be in bed, but Tom says I'll need this healing ritual. Are you all ready?"

"Yeah," Draco says.

"Who is Tom, anyway?" Ron asks.

I have no idea what sort of cover story Tom came up with, and hope someone else can answer that question.

"Harry?" Hermione asks into the awkward silence.

"Huh?" I say dumbly. "Sorry, still not quite with it right now."

"We were asking who Tom is," Ron says.

Sirius comes up to save the day. "Tom! We were friends of James Potter's when we were in school. We were like brothers!" It seems Voldemort has been modifying people's memories.

"Really?" Draco says. "Were you all in Gryffindor?"

Sirius nods. "It was the five of us in that dorm room. Me, James, Remus, Tom, and that sniveling betraying rat." He says that last with such cheerfulness that he must either be on some good potions or have recently murdered said rat.

"Rat?" Ron repeats, looking at him.

"Ah, good, you're all here," Tom says, approaching our table. "I've made preparations for the ritual. Harry's friends should do this one. It should work better that way. These six, plus Hermione, Cassie, and Brax."

"Nine?" Abraxas says, not commenting on the nickname this time. "Alright then."

"Who's leading the circle?" Draco asks.

"I am," Cassie says.

"You haven't even started at Hogwarts yet," Hermione says. "You know lots of magic already, though. Oh, I was afraid when I first learned I was a witch that I'd be way behind everyone who was from magical families."

"Not really," Ron says.

"You haven't really let that slow you down, Hermione," Draco says.

"They don't even teach ritual magic at Hogwarts," Cassie says, then grins brightly. "But that's okay. I can teach you!"

Abraxas looks over toward us and says, "Why do I suddenly feel this sense of impending doom in this general direction?"

"Come on, let's not waste anymore time," Tom says. "It's almost dusk."

The circle is quickly assembled in another room. The children's faces express concern and confusion. They have no idea what's really going on. They don't know why I was sick. They don't know what they're really trying to heal here. And I can't explain it to them. I barely understand what's going on myself. All that's left to me is to trust Tom and Cassie. I have no better options right now that I can see.

My mind isn't sharp and my vision is blurry. I'm still a bit woozy. I can't really focus on the ritual. Magic washes over me, prickling at my skin, rushing through my veins. Cradling warmth like a blanket, not like fire burning me. Hands upon my very soul. Touching me, holding me. Tying me. Binding me.

Clutching my head, clenching my eyes shut, curling up in a fetal position. Something, someone, is trying to control me. I will _not_ allow anyone else to _control_ me. I yank at it instinctively, struggling half-consciously. _I_ will be in control of myself. _I will be in control._

Something pulls back, but I hold on. I refuse to budge. In my mind's eye I see a fierce tug-of-war. I'm holding two ropes, but the first one acquiesced quickly. The purple one. The second, though, is still fighting. A blazing thread, emerald green, trying to wrap itself around me like a puppet's strings. Did this happen before? Was this really what happened before? No. I pull the rope. I will not be a puppet. Never again. _Never again_.

"Let it go, Tom," Cassie's voice murmurs in my head, echoing across a vast distance.

My eyes snap open. The scene is clear and sharp in front of me. Children, their faces full of worry. Runes drawn on the floor, still glowing. Glowing emerald green. Blazing in unnatural green fire.

Voldemort looks at me. I meet his eyes. Red eyes, for just a moment. I climb slowly to my feet.

I will not stand by and let others decide my fate, stumbling blindly along, having no idea what's really going on around me. People will control me and take advantage of me. Fuck these fleeting memories. My destiny is my own. There is no fate but what I make. Why am I chasing the past as if it were my own tail?

I hold out my hands to the floor and shoot Force Lightning through the runes. Green flashes into blue. The rope in my mind goes slack. Voldemort looks at me in shock.

I don't bother saying a word. The children have no idea whether this was planned or not. Their ignorance is saddening, and their faith in me is heartbreaking. Wear a mask, that none may see what you truly feel.

"Harry, are you alright?" Hermione asks.

I give her a faint smile. "Yeah. I think so. Thank you."

The light of the runes fades away as the magic settles, its job completed. Tom's shoulders slump, and he looks dejectedly at the floor. No one is paying attention to him but me — and Cassie. Her eyes are hard upon him, and while I didn't feel the need to say anything, I can guess that they will have _words_ later. I know what Voldemort tried to do. What I don't understand is why I trusted him, in this life or any other.


	16. Ties that Bind

"Do you have any idea what you did?" Gellert asks quietly. He's cornered me and drawn me away as the other children head to bed or go home.

I gesture at him to follow as I head down the corridor to my room. "Not really, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Well, I wasn't in the circle, so I only had a second-hand view of what happened, but even I felt something just as a bystander." He scowls. "And why did I get excluded from the circle?" He shakes his head. "Well, no matter."

We step into my room and I close the door behind him.

"I'd say that I'm sure Voldemort has his reasons, but I really don't think I trust his reasons just now."

"Yeah, really shouldn't trust a Dark Lord without knowing their motivation," Gellert says.

"Does that include you?" I smirk.

"Hey, you know my motivation," Gellert protests. "I want to be a Sith!"

"I'll be sure to reserve a red lightsaber for you, then," I say.

"That ritual this morning…" Gellert says. "Why don't you run down everything you know about what happened today and I'll see if I can fill in the gaps?"

I nod. "Fair enough." I take a seat at the foot of the bed. I don't think I'd be getting to sleep anytime soon anyway. My mind is sharp and clear, and I'm wide-eyed and wide awake. "The resurrection ritual this morning should have killed me. My soul was torn into, where a piece of Voldemort's soul had been."

"That shouldn't have killed you," Gellert says. "The ritual to create a Horcrux involves tearing the soul. That alone wouldn't do it."

"It was excruciatingly painful and remained so even after jumping back in time to before the ritual," I say.

"Unless, of course, Voldemort _intended_ it to kill you," Gellert says, scowling. "And let me tell you, the damage on your soul wasn't just a misfired ritual. It was an attack."

"How can you tell?" I ask.

"I've dealt with demons before," Gellert says. "Some of them have claws that can tear not only at the body but at the soul as well." He gestures toward me. "And this has the hallmarks of demonic claws, tearing in and scooping out a bit and leaving aggravated wounds."

"Dare I ask where you got your experience with demons?"

"Well, I _am_ a Dark Lord," Gellert replies with a shrug.

"So you think he was trying to kill me, and didn't expect me to survive?"

"Right." Gellert nods. "I bet he was right surprised when he found out what happened."

"Yeah, no doubt. So what about this soul healing ritual?"

"Describe what happened during that from your perspective," Gellert says.

"Well, first it felt good, warm and comforting. I could feel the wounds being soothed. But then I realized something was trying to bind me. I sensed two threads, purple and green. I refused to let them control me. The purple one surrendered, but the green one fought back."

"That would be Cassie and Voldemort," Gellert says, frowning. "They really were trying to soul bond you there. But Cassie too? She had to have known that wouldn't have worked. Oh… she must have intended to place herself in the passive position in the first place, if not to create an equal connection. But Voldemort? Yeah, he was definitely trying to bind you. Damn near would have succeeded, too, if you'd been less strong-willed."

"I don't understand," I say. "I can still feel a bond there. It's not resisting anymore but it's definitely there."

Gellert nods. "Yeah, when Voldemort tried to bind you, you reversed it upon him and put yourself in the dominant position instead."

"So what exactly does that mean?" I wonder.

"Couldn't tell you the specifics," Gellert says. "I was never stupid enough to get into that sort of arrangement."

"Thanks, that's very helpful," I say dryly.

"You're welcome!" Gellert says brightly. "But yeah, when you hear people refer to 'selling your soul'… this is what they mean. Soul bonds aren't the sort of romantic bullshit you occasionally run across in fiction. They're demonic magic, plain and simple."

I leave my room and head down the hallway toward the library. Raised voices emanate from inside. Cassie and Voldemort are clearly not even trying to be subtle.

"I can't believe you!" Cassie exclaims. "This was not what we agreed upon!"

"It's good to know you've been discussing me behind my back," I say, stepping into the room.

"Harry," Cassie says, chagrinned.

I wave a hand. "I know, I know, I was unconscious and hardly in a state to give opinions."

"Revan," Voldemort says, looking at me with a measure of respect and thinly veiled complete terror.

"Voldemort," I say flatly, pinning him with a hard gaze.

"I—"

"You didn't have any idea that I would be capable of reversing the bond, or you wouldn't have tried," I interrupt.

Voldemort looks away. "That… is true."

"You deceived me, you misled me, and you outright lied to me," I say. "You tried to kill me, and you tried to enslave me."

Cassie steps aside. "I'll let you handle this. I didn't think you'd be so lucid already."

"My mind has never been clearer," I say, not turning my eyes from Voldemort.

"Tell me that you would have done differently, given the opportunity," Voldemort says.

"You're damned right I would have done differently," I snap. "For all the shit I've been through, I still believe in _freedom for all beings_. And you're damned lucky that I do, too, considering the position you've unwittingly put yourself into. And what did you intend to do if you were successful? You still wouldn't have had the memories and experiences of the version of you that I knew."

"I had hoped that I would be able to reclaim them," Voldemort says.

"If you had, you would have realized that the Tom I knew would have never done this to me."

"Are you certain of that?"

I ignore the question. "I'm going to hold you to your promise of helping me track down the scattered pieces of my soul."

"Yes. Of course," Voldemort says.

"I hope you're not upset at me too, too," Cassie says quietly.

I shake my head. "No. I'm not. I can at least trust that _you_ probably just had my best interests at heart."

"You know, Revan," Gellert says behind me, leaning casually on the doorframe. "You act like we're the people you knew before. Which we are, but also not. We might not have the motivations of the people you knew, just because we _don't_ really know you, not very well, not yet, and didn't have those experiences."

I sigh. "You have a good point."

"I expect that I wouldn't be particularly surprised at anything that other me might have done, given the circumstances and what led up to them," Gellert says. "But you know what? I want to find out and see for myself." He smirks at Voldemort. "Not throw it all away on a mad gamble."

"I cannot imagine what manner of circumstances could have remotely led to the situation he described," Voldemort says.

"And I'm having trouble imagining it now, too, and questioning that I may have misinterpreted something somewhere," I say. "But I won't go so far as to believe it to be impossible. What a wild ride might have led to all that?" I shake my head. "It doesn't matter, now. I'm not interested in chasing the past. I just want to repair my soul." I point my finger at Voldemort. "And _you_ have lost any right to whatever knowledge and experience you may have learned, but you're going to get it anyway, and hopefully some sense along the way."

"If nothing else, I'm sure your little trick would still have given you the immortality you were so eager for," Gellert says. "And might I ask just why you kept me out of it?"

"The children didn't know you," Cassie says.

"No excuses, now," Gellert says. "You might have believed that, sure, but I don't think that's why Voldemort ensured that those specific people were in the circle. I'm guessing you weren't the one he felt threatened by."

"This bullshit better not have hurt any of my friends, either," I add.

Voldemort looks to Gellert. "Don't tell me that you would wish to bind yourself to Revan as well? I could understand Cassiopeia seeing it beneficial to enter into such a pact, but I would have thought better of it of you."

"I'm not sure which of us that's more insulting toward," Cassie says.

"Well, let's seeeeee here," Gellert drawls, then holds up a finger. "Revan's offering us unconditional immortality and eternal youth." He holds up another finger. "He's capable of interdimensional travel and is also offering us the chance to see the multiverse." He holds up a third finger. "And, here's a big one here, he's quite insistent about this whole 'freedom' thing, even in the face of incredibly stupid actions that he would be well within his rights to deprive you of such."

Voldemort stares at him. "You believe him?"

"He's not kicking your ass right now," Gellert points out. "I would be, if I were in his position."

I don't know that I could kick his ass at this point regardless, but I'll keep my mouth shut on that.

"If you are truly such a proponent of freedom, then release me," Voldemort says.

"Is that what you really want?" I ask. "You've gone to a lot of trouble to grasp at this opportunity for immortality."

Voldemort is quiet for a moment. "This was not the way I intended to go about it."

"Of course it wasn't," I say. "And you didn't intend your Horcruces to drive you mad, either. You never think through the potential consequences of your actions. You never stop to consider the price your wishes might demand, or whether you're prepared to pay it. So is it worth the price? Because by all means, I'll cut you loose and return you to the state you would have been in without me."

"I would have been dead," Voldemort says. "That is not much of a choice."

"There are always choices," I reply.

"Really, Voldemort?" Gellert says. "I would have expected some clever negotiations, attempts at bargaining."

"I do not _bargain_ ," Voldemort retorts, scowling.

"Maybe you should consider it," Gellert says wryly.

Voldemort glares at him, then looks back to me. "I will accede to your demands only insofar as they lead me to the latest version of me that you are capable of locating. We will leave further discussion of the matter until that point. We shall see how much of your fleeting, fragmented memory bears out."

"Very well," I say. "I will let you work on that, then."

"It may take quite some time to develop a suitable ritual, never mind pinpoint a particular time," Voldemort says. "This is a completely unprecedented field and I will be effectively starting from scratch."

I chuckle, and spread my hands. "You have all the time in the multiverse."

* * *

A cool wind wafts through the gardens of Caer Danas, and stars shine brightly down through breaks in the wild, overgrown foliage. For once, I don't feel a pressing need to try to sleep, not even to make sure the ritual went through. The effects won't change, regardless. That's not the sort of thing that it will make a difference with, regardless of where in time I wind up.

"Couldn't sleep either, mate?" Ron asks.

"Right now, I feel like I could never sleep again."

"That bad, huh?"

I shrug. "Dunno if it's really bad, being wide awake and alert. I'll head to bed in a little bit, anyway. I'm pretty good at sleeping when I'm not tired, sometimes." Trained myself to do it so I could take advantage of my Time powers, really.

"That was some weird shit that went down today," Ron says.

"You're telling me," I reply.

"What really happened? You got sick on Beltane bad enough to need a healing ritual? Did you guys perform a ritual at dawn that the rest of us didn't know about?"

"What makes you think that?" I ask.

"We did most of the other rituals at dawn," Ron says. "But today, everyone slept in. Okay, that's not strange for me, but Draco's always up bright and early, obnoxiously so sometimes. He didn't crawl out of bed until almost noon today."

How much might the others have guessed?

"It's complicated," I say. "And I'm afraid what might wind up being read from your mind."

"By Dumbledore?" Ron asks.

Tom didn't trust Dumbledore. Not the one in my head, not the one in the house. Voldemort didn't want anyone to know he was back. I can't trust Voldemort. Dumbledore isn't evil. Like the Jedi, he may not be as good as he thinks he is, but when it comes down to it, he means well anyway.

"I need to talk to Dumbledore," I say.

How much should I tell him? How would any of this make sense? In hindsight, this past year seems to have been one long string of fumbling, blindly groping, and trusting fragments of memory that I don't even understand. It's ridiculous. I've been a fool.

"Maybe Dumbledore can help?" Ron suggests. His face is barely visible in the dim garden, light from the house limning his hair in copper.

I nod distantly. "Maybe so. Either way, I want to be the one to tell him first. I'll try to explain it all after. Promise."

"Should I try not to figure it out too hard so as not to spoil the surprise?" Ron asks with a faint smirk.

I laugh softly. "Have at it. I'm sure there's stuff going on you could not possibly guess at, though."

"Will you wait until we get back to school, or is it urgent enough to go try to talk to him as soon as possible?" Ron asks.

"Good question," I say. "I doubt anything terrible is going to happen worse than what's already happened, but expectations and assumptions can often lead nowhere good."

"You're afraid of what he might say," Ron says.

I sigh. No matter what I do, it seems like these children are still loyal to me. And I still trust them all implicitly. Is this what the Ritual of Concord was meant to do? The only reason I've kept secrets from them was for their own protection, but I've felt terrible about it. I doubt that's entirely because of some ritual, though.

"You know what," I say. "I'll— I'll tell you. And I need your opinion. Your advice. Alright?"

Ron nods. "'Course."

"For starters, Tom is Voldemort," I say.

"WHAT?" Ron ejaculates.

"Shh, keep it down," I say. "I don't know who might still be awake inside."

"Right, sorry," Ron says, then stage-whispers, " _What?_ "

"To summarize," I say, taking a deep breath. "Voldemort tricked me into resurrecting him, tried to kill me, and then when that didn't worked, tried to bind my soul to him. Which backfired on him."

"Merlin's balls," Ron utters. " _That_ was what you were doing this morning?"

I nod. "And I didn't find out exactly what happened until after the evening ritual."

"How did it backfire?"

"Somehow I managed to reverse the bond through sheer force of will," I say.

"What does that mean?"

"Honestly, I have no idea," I admit.

Ron is quiet for a moment. "Do you think you can handle this?"

"I'm in way over my head here." I rub my face. "And I just keep putting on a nice mask and pretending like everything's okay."

Ron reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Don't worry. You don't have to handle it yourself. I'm here for you. _We're_ here for you. I don't know what we might do against Voldemort, but I'll bloody well try."

I give him a small smile. "Thanks, Ron."

"If you want my advice, talk to Dumbledore," Ron says. "He'll listen, I'm sure. If nothing else, he's powerful, and it would be good to have his back in a fight if it came to that. I don't know how much he might know about this sort of magic, though. You'd probably need to find someone… darker, to figure out what this bond thing means. Maybe Mr. Malfoy could help, or know someone who can?"

"Good idea," I say. "You okay? Shall we head to bed for now?"

"Are we really sleeping under the same roof as Voldemort?" Ron asks.

"I don't know if he's asleep yet, but yeah. I don't like it either."

"We could just all go somewhere else, or just go back to school," Ron says.

"It would be more reasonable to just kick Voldemort out of my house," I say with a smirk. "But I'd rather have him where I know where he is and can keep an eye on him."

" _Definitely_ talk to Dumbledore."

"You wanna head over there right now?" I say. "I'm sure he wouldn't mind being woken up on account of Voldemort."

"Yeah, if we can," Ron says. "You think we'd be able to get into his office at this time of night? You think we'd even be able to get into the school?"

"Probably," I say. "Maybe. I don't know."

"Do you have any way of contacting him on short notice?" Ron asks.

Do I? "Maybe." I was able to send a Patronus to Gellert after the Imbolc ritual. Could I do that again? It wouldn't be supercharged with the Light Side, of course, but it might be able to get the message across. I pull out my pine wand and focus on the happy thought of my friends alive and free and happy for eternity. Slowly, a wisp of glowing mist emerges from the tip of my wand, swirling and coiling about until coalescing into the form of a translucent silver dragon.

"Whoa," Ron breathes. "What is _that_?"

"It's a Patronus," I say. "A patron spirit, or something like that. Eternity," I address the spirit, "I need you to find Dumbledore for me. Tell him to come to my house, at Caer Danas. It's important. A situation has come up, and I'd rather explain it to him in person."

The shimmering dragon nods her head and darts off, vanishing into nowhere.

"Wicked," Ron says. "Where'd you learn to cast that?"

"Imbolc," I say, and gesture to him. "Come on, let's head inside. He'd probably take the Floo, if he got the message and decides to come."

In past the glass-paned doors, the large common area is empty for the moment, the flames in the fireplace burning merrily and casting flickering light over the room. After a few minutes, the blaze flashes into green, and Dumbledore steps through into the room. A pink bathrobe dotted with purple flowers is draped around his body. Well, at least I think it's a bathrobe, but it's not all that different from what he normally wears.

"Ah, Harry, my boy," Dumbledore says. "And good evening to you as well, Ronald. I had wondered, at seeing an unfamiliar Patronus."

"I hope I didn't wake you," I say.

"No, no, not at all, quite alright, my boy," Dumbledore says. "Tell me, what is the situation you mentioned?"

I pause. "Complicated." How am I to tell him? How can I describe untold years of memories I cannot grasp that led me to one foolish choice? And despite all that's happened, I still would rather Tom not come to harm. "I'll try to explain. Why don't we go into the kitchen and sit down? Dobby can get us some tea."

"Of course."

Once we're settled, with a cup of hot tea in my hands in an attempt to soothe my nerves, I speak low, "Voldemort is in this house. Before you get alarmed, I don't think he's an immediate danger to anyone here, but I don't trust him further than I can hex him, as you might imagine."

"Voldemort?" Dumbledore repeats, raising an eyebrow at me. "What happened?"

"He tricked me into resurrecting him," I say. "He'd made seven Horcruces, you see. I thought surely with all of them to piece him back together, he would be saner, you know? And maybe he is, but he took the ritual as an opportunity to try to kill me. It didn't work. I survived."

"I am certainly glad to see you unharmed," Dumbledore says. "Seven Horcruxes? I didn't think even he were mad enough to try such a thing."

"My… soul was wounded somehow, when he tried to kill me," I say. "On short notice, he put together a ritual he said would heal me. He played nice, making it sound helpful, even guilty. I didn't realize at the time that I'd been hurt because he intended it. I thought it was just something going wrong. So, at dusk, we performed the healing ritual. While it did repair the damage, he also took the opportunity to attempt to bind my soul. That didn't work either. I managed to reverse the bond and turn it back onto him."

"That is very dark magic you've been involved with today," Dumbledore says.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "I know. I thought he was an old friend. That's what he made me think, at least. Now, I'm not so sure."

"I do not believe Voldemort is capable of having true friends," Dumbledore says.

"Maybe," I say. "I won't believe it's impossible."

"Not everyone is capable of redemption."

I shake my head, and stare into my tea. "I refuse to believe that. There are always choices. There are always—"

" _Avada Kedavra!_ "

In a flash of green light, Dumbledore goes still, and slumps onto the table. Behind him, in the doorway, Voldemort stands, wand raised, glowing crimson eyes affixed upon the scene. Ron's chair clatters to the floor, as he scrambles away in a panic.

"Voldemort…" I utter.

"It was good of you to bring him here alone," Voldemort says.

"Bloody hell," Ron says.

"Bloody hell, Voldemort," I reiterate. Climbing to my feet, I whip my wand into my hand.

"What, do you intend to fight me now?"

"You're damned right I do," I snap. "Ron, get help."

Ron nods and dashes for the other door. Voldemort slashes his wand through the air, and without speaking a word, Ron collapses under a bludgeon of Dark Side energy.

"Fuck you, Voldemort," I snarl.

We exchange curses, but my reflexes are too slow. I can't keep up with him with a wand, with incantations I have to speak aloud while he can do silently, with clumsy wand movements I hesitate at performing that he dances through smoothly like a musician playing a graceful, deadly tune. But I don't need to fight fair. Force Lightning crackles around me, sending off bolts in all directions.

"Voldemort, damnit, I didn't resurrect you just to kill you again on the same day," I growl. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Eliminating my greatest foe in one swift move," Voldemort says.

"You also killed my friend! Do you really think I'll let you get away with that?"

"Will you stop me, then?" Voldemort asks.

"I don't have to kill you," I say. "Just myself."

I focus Force Lightning inward, sending electricity coursing through my body, and stop my own heart.

* * *

I wake. Sunlight streams in through the windows between emerald green curtains. At the foot of the bed, Voldemort sits, looking down at me with alarmed red eyes.

" _Voldemort_ ," I hiss, sitting bolt upright and swinging my legs to the floor.

"Revan," Voldemort says, almost stammering like Quirrell as he says it.

I point a finger at him accusingly. "Don't murder people in my kitchen."

"Don't call Dumbledore," Voldemort says.

I circle around to stand in front of him. "That sort of bantha shit is exactly the reason why I called Dumbledore."

"I wanted to see if you could control the bond," Voldemort says. "You clearly cannot."

"Testing me with a game of kick-the-rancor isn't going to earn you any points," I say.

"Would you deny me the opportunity to remove the only person I would truly wish dead?"

I roll my eyes. "You are being ridiculous. Especially when I was in the middle of telling him you weren't to be harmed. He argued that you were a hopeless case, beyond redemption. Are you that eager to prove him right?"

"I never sought redemption, Revan," Voldemort says.

"And I can't force you into it," I say. "But I _can_ keep you from hurting my friends."

"What are the limits on your power, I wonder?"

I glare at him. "Don't. Just don't."

The door opens, and Cassie comes into the room and carefully closes the door behind her. "What in Merlin's name happened? I just found myself several hours ago, but we haven't even performed the ritual yet."

"And now we don't have to," I say. "Voldemort was being an idiot."

"Don't call Dumbledore," Voldemort says.

"Or what?" I say. "Or you'll keep being an idiot and I'll keep having to stop you, up until I get fed up with you? I've given you a lot of leeway here, far more than I should have had to, after what you pulled. You said you'd accede to my demands. My demands include that you _don't hurt my friends_."

"Is Dumbledore your friend?" Voldemort asks.

"If I tell you yes, will you knock this shit off?"

"I'd really rather you didn't hurt _anyone_ , for that matter," Cassie adds.

"Alright, I see that I need to spell out the ground rules here as if you were a wee firstie just starting Hogwarts," I say. "First, don't hurt my friends. Under any circumstances, no matter what they're doing. This includes the six who performed the Ritual of Concord with me, Hermione Granger, the house-elves Rispy and Dobby, and the three who were aged down with the Ritual of Renewal. Is that clear?"

"Plainly," Voldemort says flatly.

"Secondly, anyone in my house is considered a guest and is not to be harmed unless I say so or they're attacking my friends or trying to burn down my house or something like that," I say.

"Understood," Voldemort says reluctantly.

"Thirdly, don't hurt anyone else, except in self-defense or defense of my friends, within reason," I say.

"Why?" Voldemort asks.

"Because it's bloody stupid and wasteful," I say. "Even if you were trying to take over the world, it would be incredibly counterproductive to slaughter and destroy the very thing you're trying to conquer."

"When you put it that way…"

"Furthermore," I go on. "You understand perfectly well the spirit of what I'm asking. These are not laws in which to find legal loopholes. These are guidelines to not pissing me off."

"You don't care if he takes over the world?" Cassie asks.

I shrug. "Not really, no. If it's not done in a stupid, messy way. I'd think there's really better uses of your time, but everyone's got to have a hobby."

"Just when I think you're not much of a Dark Lord, you go and say something like that," Voldemort says.

I smirk. "Yes, well. While I'd like to go chasing down the fragments of my soul, as you said, it'll take time to figure out how to trace them, right? We've got all the time in the multiverse here. And taking over the world would probably give access to libraries and repositories containing books and artifacts that might help in that endeavor."

Cassie sighs. "Do you often have casual and reasonable discussions about world domination?"

"Yep," Rispy pipes in from next to her.

"How long have you been standing there?" I ask Rispy.

"I'm a house-elf," Rispy says. "I don't have to be seen if I don't want to be."

"If I agree to your 'guidelines', Revan, will you avoid making known my identity and status?" Voldemort asks.

"Fine, _Tom_ ," I say.

"That is… acceptable."

"Now, if we understand one another here, I'm going to go out and have the party with my friends that I missed the first time around," I say. "It's Beltane, after all."

* * *

"You must have really overslept, mate," Ron says. "We all did."

"Yeah," I say absently, going over to grab some of the food that's been laid out on the tables. There's sweetrolls and fruit tarts, Cauldron Cakes, candied ginger, spicy beef and honeyed goat, and some sort of salad made of flowers.

This Ron didn't hear my confession about Voldemort. This Ron didn't pledge his support and give me advice. This Ron didn't die horribly to a dark curse trying to help me. It doesn't matter. I know he would, and that's enough.

"Kind of strange," Ron says quietly. "Draco's always up obnoxiously early in the morning."

"Really now, if people want to perform erotic rituals at dawn, they don't need to make us sleep through it," I say with a sigh and a roll of my eyes. "They just need to go a ways away and ward the area."

Ron's eyes widen. "Was _that_ what they were doing?"

"Don't know," I say with a shrug. Not a lie, just an unrelated comment.

"I really don't want to think about people's parents doing… that."

"Ooh, pancakes!"

Dobby holds aloft a platter of warm, fresh pancakes slathered in honey and strawberries. "Pancakes is Master Harry's favorite food!"

"You're the best, Dobby!"

* * *

"Does it ever get confusing?" Cassie asks quietly. "Trying to keep track of what 'really' happened?"

"They all 'really' happened," I reply. After skimming them over, I roll up the scrolls for homework I'd had to do over Beltane weekend, and tuck them away in my trunk.

"Well, yeah, but the things that happened in _this_ timeline," Cassie says.

"A little, sometimes," I say. "I mean, on top of that, I have things that happened in still other timelines that I can barely remember. Sometimes I'm not sure which lifetime I had a conversation in. Other times, it's easy to get impatient about having to repeat something that I just did."

"But just think of the things you could do with it!" Gellert pipes in.

I glance over my shoulder. "I did lock the door, Gellert."

"I Alohomora'd it," Gellert replies offhandedly.

"Ugh, what's the point in locking a door if a first-year charm can open it?" I mutter.

Gellert ignores my comment. "If you know you can go back and do something over, you could do stuff like, have a conversation with someone in different ways to see how they'd react!"

"Time travel is not a toy, Gellert," I say.

"And I'm Gerard now, remember, Revan?" Gellert says.

"Yeah, Gerard," I say. "Seems like everyone but me is pretending to be someone else for a change. Usually I'm the one wearing the mask."

"Well, you haven't been telling everyone you're a Sith Lord," Gellert grins widely.

"I totally have," I say.

"Yeah, but nobody believes you."

"What's a Sith Lord, anyway?" Cassie wonders.

"Alternate universe thing," I say. "Gerard here discovered that many of the universes I can remember anything of have been featured in movies in this world. Which sounds patently ridiculous. I have no idea how anyone could see enough of those universes to make a coherent narrative out of it."

"You can't be serious," Cassie says.

"No, he can't," Gellert says. "Sirius is your dad."

Cassie punches him in the shoulder.

Gellert grins at her. "So, what did I miss?"

I take a deep breath. "In summary, Voldemort spun a stupid healing ritual and tried to bind my soul. I managed to reverse the bond. Then Voldemort murdered Dumbledore while he was having tea in my kitchen in the middle of the night. So I went back in time. None of that happened in this timeline. Cassie and Voldemort got dragged back because of the bonds."

"Does it get annoying having to explain things to everyone?" Gellert asks.

"My world is a recap," I say with a smirk.

"At least he finally learned to summarize," Rispy pipes in.

"Maybe I should write a book instead."

"Oh, no," Rispy says. "You're a terrible writer. You abuse adverbs like nobody's business."

I roll my eyes, then look to Gellert. " _Gerard_. I need to know everything about soul bonds. And if you don't know it, I need you to find out."

"What, me?" Gellert says innocently. "I'm just a cute little Muggleborn. What would I know about such dark magic?"

"Gellert Grindelwald," I say firmly. "Soul bonds."

"Well, I'd be happy to research how to bind me so you can take me with you through your lovely jaunts through space and time," Gellert says.

"For someone who claims that they were never stupid enough to mess with soul bonds, you certainly seem eager to be bound," I comment.

"Did I say that?"

"Some version of you said that, at least," I say.

"You don't trust Tom to tell you how to enslave his soul and make you do his bidding?" Gellert says with a grin. "After all, he's the expert here."

"I don't want to enslave his soul and make him do my bidding," I reply.

"Suit yourself," Gellert says with a shrug.

"I'll get you access to the Black libraries," Cassie says. "There might be something useful in there."

"Right, guys," I say. "See you in June."


	17. Hope

"It is with greatest sorrow that I must inform you all that Professor Quirrell will not be returning to his duties as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," Dumbledore says at the head of the Great Hall. "He passed away peacefully—"

Snape slips him a scrap of parchment, which Dumbledore peers at intently, adjusting his spectacles.

"Due to his failing health," Dumbledore goes on, "his heart gave out during Beltane revelries."

A smattering of coughs and sniggers ripples across the hall.

"To that end, for the remainder of the term, Defense Against the Dark Arts classes will be replaced with Fencing Club," Dumbledore says. "There are many dark creatures which are resistant to magic, also, learning how to dodge is a valuable lesson for wizards and witches of all inclinations."

Hermione groans quietly. "Fencing Club."

"Can't argue his point," Ron says.

"It's not so bad," Pansy says. "It beats throwing furniture at a troll."

"That… is probably true," Hermione says.

"Doesn't anyone feel bad about Professor Quirrell?" Daphne asks.

"Not really, no," Draco says.

"There's certainly worse ways to go," Blaise says.

"It's not like he was sacrificed in a dark ritual to resurrect Voldemort or anything," I say.

"Don't _say_ things like that," Ron says.

"You have the worst sense of humor sometimes," Hermione huffs.

"Yeah, sorry," I say with a smirk.

"Which is the worse thought?" Blaise says. "That, or the mental image of our parents having an orgy?"

Draco almost chokes on a breakfast sausage. "Don't _say_ things like that."

* * *

Most of my dorm mates have gone down to the common room, except for Ron who is still asleep. Me, I'm just revising my Potions work. Sometimes it seems like avoiding catastrophe's in Snape's class is more difficult than dealing with Dark Lords.

Rispy appears at the foot of my bed, clad in his adventuring gear. "I've found it."

"What?" I ask, putting down the parchment and looking over at him.

"The crystal cave," Rispy says. "Did you forget?"

I chuckle. "Not this time. You just startled me."

Ron groans and rolls over. "Can I sleep five more minutes?"

"Nope." Rispy snaps his fingers, and Ron's bed sheet lifts up and rolls him out of bed.

"Ack!" Ron exclaims. "Bloody house-elf."

"So, shall we go?" Rispy asks me.

"I can't skive off Potions," I say.

"Can't?" Rispy repeats with a smirk.

"Don't want to," I correct myself.

"Harry, tell your house-elf not to assault me with bed sheets," Ron says.

"Nah," I say. "It's too funny."

"The night or the weekend is fine too." Rispy shrugs. "It's not likely to go anywhere."

"Where is this cave, anyway?" I ask.

"The Himalayas."

"Where?" I wonder.

Rispy smirks. "Have you never looked at a map?"

"Not really, no," I say.

"Okay, suffice it to say, it's a large mountainous area a significant portion of the planet away from here."

"How in the world did you run across a crystal cave in the Himalayas?" I wonder.

"Bill had some contacts there who pointed me in the right direction," Rispy says. "I checked it out and can confirm that there are lightsaber-grade crystals inside."

"Ugh, going to be late for breakfast," Ron says, quickly getting dressed and scrambling for the door.

"Alright, I'll take a nap after dinner and we can head out tonight," I say.

Rispy nods. "Alright then."

* * *

After Potions class, I approach Snape, and say, "Professor. A moment, please?"

"What is it, Potter?" Snape asks.

"I'm going to sneak out of the castle tonight to go to the Himalayas," I say. "Would you like to give me detention now, or pretend to catch me afterward?"

Snape sighs and puts his face in his palm. "I don't think I even want to ask why you are going to the Himalayas. Fine. Detention on Sunday. Remedial Potions."

"Thanks, Professor!" I say brightly.

"If you miss any classes tomorrow, you will get another one," Snape says.

"Of course," I say.

"And if I have to send out a search party, you will spend the entire summer on Remedial Potions."

* * *

"Okay, Rispy," I say. "How are we going to get to the Himalayas?"

"Do you remember how to Apparate?" Rispy asks.

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe?"

Rispy shakes his head. "You could probably figure it out, but no need to go through two dozen resets of you splinching yourself. Alright, I'll have to take you myself. This is going to be fun. You got everything?"

"Yeah," I say. "I've got a warm coat, a knit mask, and a pair of fuzzy wool socks."

"You won't need that," Rispy says.

"You said we were going up high in the mountains, didn't you?" I ask. "I was thinking something like Hoth."

"It's almost summer, and we're going to a valley," Rispy says. "Quite nice and warm there at the moment."

"Oh," I say, and go to adjust my supplies. Once that's done, I go over to him. "So how do we do this?"

"Just hold on, and try to focus," Rispy says. "I hate doing this with a heavy load."

"I'm a load?" I grin.

"And you've gained weight," Rispy says. "Too many pancakes for you."

I scoff. "I got older! I'm almost twelve now!"

"Right, I'm just hauling six stone of pancakes halfway across the world," Rispy says. "Hold on!"

A squeezing sensation, like being pulled through a tube, tosses me into a void of swirling blue mist, glowing in tinges of light, deafening in white noise. For just a moment, I feel like I'm tumbling weightless, but Rispy clings to me and holds me steady.

Air rushes against my skin as we pop out on the far side. I stagger and almost fall over, but for strong elven hands refusing to let me go. The air is warmer than I'd expected, for all that it's the middle of the night, brief flashes of stars visible between breaks in the clouds. My feet sink into the soggy ground and almost slip in the mud.

"Ugh, Hoth might have been nicer," I say. "Which way is this cave?"

Rispy chuckles. "I think you can find it yourself. Use the Force, Lexen."

I smirk faintly, then close my eyes and reach out with the Force. A node of light floods my senses, brightly glowing with power and brimming with raw, untapped energy. There's something primordial about the place, wild and untamed, that reminds me much more of the Force of the other universe than of the more structured, ordered, organized magic of this world.

"You're right, that _is_ hard to miss," I say. "Why didn't you bring us closer, though?"

"Can't Apparate near a node," Rispy says.

Electricity flickers in the sky, followed by rumbling thunder. Using the Force as my eyes, I pick my way through the valley and into a narrow tunnel winding into the mountainside.

I pull out my pine wand and cast, " _Lumos_."

Light shines upon smooth, pale grey stone. I make my way down the winding tunnel, with Rispy trailing behind me. I have to squeeze past several places that are so narrow that an adult human would not be able to fit. The cave network is a maze of twisty little passages, all alike, and if it weren't for the Force I might be completely lost down here. The further down we go, the more surreal it feels around me, with flecks of green and pink along the walls. Perhaps surreal isn't quite the right word here. Nothing is more real than the Force. Magic, as they call it here, isn't merely an unnatural thing warping reality. It's part of nature itself. It's the foundation that the world is built upon.

A rushing sound behind us distracts me from my reverie. Water runs down into the tunnels, not in a trickle but in a stream.

"A flash flood!" I cry. "Move! The tunnel ascends up ahead!"

We scramble ahead of the rising water. It laps at my boots, and I run, splashing, sloshing. I slip on the wet stones, planting my face in shallow water that is rapidly becoming deeper. My wand falls from my hand, lost in the churning water. Rispy reaches down and takes my arm, helping me to my feet. The flood waters flow around us, too much, too fast, and the slope seems so far away.

"This might be a good time to remember the Bubble-Head Charm," Rispy comments.

"Can't remember, can't find my wand," I reply, more swimming than walking now. "Jedi breath control!"

As the waters rise over my head, trapping me in the flooded tunnel, I focus through the Force to still my breath and the need for oxygen, and let the Force sustain me. The Force is strong here, and a trained Jedi could readily survive underwater for a good while even in much lower available energy levels. Beside me, I can sense Rispy trying desperately to do likewise, holding his breath as long as he can. I swim up ahead and put my arm around him. This time, I'm the one pulling him out of the water. His head breaks the surface, gasping for air.

The water doesn't seem to be rising any further this far in. We stop to catch our breaths, and dry our clothes a bit. 

"Why did you stop for me?" I ask. "You could have made it."

"Well, before I go off on some 'no one gets left behind' spiel, I'm going to point out that my soul is bound to yours, and if you die, I'm getting tugged back with you anyway," Rispy says. "You're immortal, remember?" He pauses for a long moment, then continues more quietly, "I still don't like to see you die anyway."

We climb upward into a more open cave system, away from the flooded tunnels. The glow around us is faint at first, but brighter as we continue further in. A dazzling array of crystals surrounds us, in a myriad of colors, flowing with potential.

"I hadn't really hoped to see something like this in this world," I say.

Rispy grins wryly. "That is why you fail."

"But you never found it before," I say. "However many times you visited this world and lived out a life a little like this one."

"Nope," Rispy says. "I never looked."

"Why?" I ask.

Rispy sighs. "Maybe that is why _I_ fail."

"Did you get a crystal for your own lightsaber, when you were here before?" I ask.

Rispy nods. "Yeah. You made another set of parts, didn't you?"

I grin. "And they'll be yours. The first of many, maybe."

I slowly make a circuit around the caves, watching the light flicker and play. Some crystals give off a steady light, while others flicker and flash. Some remain a single color, while others swirl and shift. They hum, they sing, a subtle harmony to my Force-trained ears, reverberating in the air around me.

"The Jedi weren't perfect," I say. "The Sith were mad. The wizards in this world don't know as much as they think they do and needlessly divide themselves. But maybe there is hope anyway."

I stop, my eyes drawn to one crystal, shining so brightly blue that it's almost white, glowing like a small star, singing in tune with my soul. I reach out and take it, and it comes loose without a struggle. It could make me believe that my soul could be healed, that I could be whole again, bathing me in warmth and light. I understand in a moment what this crystal represents: Hope. Perhaps _hope_ was always the concept that my power was built upon, and not regret. Or perhaps that it's the natural evolution of the same concept. Regret is looking to what was and wishing that it had been better. Hope is looking to what could be and believing that it will be better.

I turn around, cradling the crystal in my palm, and say quietly, "I found it."

What thoughts might have been running through Rispy's head when he came here and found his own crystal?

"I brought mine, too," Rispy says.

I nod. "Good. I brought the parts I made, all ready to assemble and just missing that one key component. Let's get them made. We can worry about how the fuck to get out of here afterward."

I lay out the pieces in front of us as we sit cross-legged facing one another. This isn't really the ideal sort of conditions I'd want to make a lightsaber in, but what is? Some cold, dead spaceship? It doesn't matter. The Force is all around, from the forests of Kashyyyk to the oceans of Manaan to the depths of open space. My sodden clothes cling to my body, and my dripping hair runs rivulets down my back. In the cave around me, the Force flows, raw and alive, neither dark nor light, or maybe both. Outside, I sense the storm raging. Thunder crashes in the warm summer clouds. Perhaps there is no place in the universe that I might feel so at home — so _attuned_ — as this, as here, as now, in this time and place.

Blue lightning crackles around the lightsaber parts in front of me, and the crystal slowly rises into the air, humming and glowing brightly. It's very raw, and while it isn't intelligent in and of itself, I can sense that it isn't sure what to make of this, but it's ready to help however it can.

"The crystal is the heart of the blade," I say quietly.

The parts float into the air, spinning in their own orbits around the crystal. With each pulse of the crystal, I feel like it is beating in time with my own heart.

"The heart is the crystal of the Jedi."

The Force flows through me, through my hands, through the crystal and the pieces before me. For my part in the universe, I don't control the Force — I'm part of it. My soul itself is a node.

"The Jedi is the crystal of the Force."

Each part fits together one by one, and for all my worries about having made them with substandard equipment, everything goes together perfectly. I never needed to worry. I just needed to have faith in myself, and in the Force.

"The Force is the blade of the heart."

The lightsaber hilt drifts toward me, and I take it up in both hands, finishing putting the pieces into place and completing the process.

"All are intertwined. The crystal, the blade, the Jedi. We are one."

With a _kwoosh_ , I ignite my new lightsaber, a pure, shining blue blade extending from the hilt. Across from me, Rispy simultaneously light and holds aloft his own yellow blade. I smile widely at him. I climb to my feet, and give my lightsaber a few testing swings in the air.

"It feels good to have a lightsaber in my hand again," I say.

"Yeah," Rispy agrees. "It does." His blade seems somewhat large for a house-elf, but he bears it well and does not seem to mind. It would be foolish to judge him by his size. Standing there with a lightsaber in his hands, he looks very much like Master Vandar.

After staring at it for a few moments longer, I put my lightsaber away and return to the flooded tunnel.

"Why wasn't the maze flooded when we came in here?" I wonder.

Rispy comes up and examines the uneven pool of water and the rock around it intently. "Oh, schist."

"Well, don't worry," I tell him. "I'm sure we can figure out a way to get out of here."

"No, I mean, the rock is schist."

"Since when do you know about rocks?"

Rispy shrugs. "I spent a lot of time as a dwarf."

I touch the surface of the water thoughtfully. "I could use breath control to get out, but it might be harder to find my way out. I found the way in in the first place because it was hard to miss the concentration of energy here. And I'm not about to just leave you here. And even if I knew where my wand was, I still don't remember how to cast the charm you mentioned. Are you sure you can't manage breath control?"

Rispy shakes his head. "It was never a talent that I'd mastered."

"Maybe I could find a way to remove the water instead," I say. "There has to be a spell… I could vanish it, maybe? Still, it's an awful lot of water to remove and it might still be pouring in outside. I don't know. Do you have any ideas?"

"You could just ask for a little help from your friends," Rispy says quietly.

I smile faintly at him. "Does anyone else know where this place is exactly?"

Rispy nods. "I left maps and notes in the library at Caer Danas. They should be able to pinpoint it from that."

"Alright." I don't have my wand, but I feel like I could certainly cast spells with a lightsaber. The crystal is just as much of a magical focus as a wand core. I think of a happy eternity, full of life, full of hope. " _Expecto Patronum!_ " A shimmering silvery dragon emerges from nowhere and coils around me, almost seeming tangible here. "Hello, Eternity," I say quietly. "I need some help. Can you go to Caer Danas, and find Cassie? Please tell her I'm trapped in a flooded cave in the Himalayas. She can find the notes on where I am in the library. Thank you."

The translucent dragon nods her head, and zips into a wall, unimpeded by neither the energy around a node nor many tonnes of schist. As I stare off at the spot where she vanished, my mind wanders back to fleeting snatches of memory.

"I had a duck once," I say. "A spirit duck. What happened to the duck?"

"I'm not sure," Rispy says.

"Well, I hope the duck is okay, wherever and whenever it wound up."

I sit back a ways away from the water and relax, and wait. It's very peaceful here, for all that there's a constant low-level feeling of the hairs on my arms standing on end from the energy in the air. I don't need to worry. I have faith in my friends.

After some time, the water ripples, and a large bubble emerges from the surface, surrounding a head, followed by two more. Cassie, Gellert, and Abraxas climb out of the pool and dispel their Bubble-Head Charms.

"Hey, guys," I say with a grin. "Great to see you."

"Leave it to you to get yourself into this sort of situation," Abraxas says. "I am beginning to believe that you are simply insane."

"Totally worth it, though," I say, gesturing toward the cave. "See for yourself."

"Holy crystals, Batman," Gellert utters as he heads inside.

"Batman?" I ask.

"Never mind," Gellert says, waving a hand absently as he goes to examine the crystal formations more closely.

"You really did find it," Cassie breathes. "This is incredible. This is the real thing. I can _feel_ the magic in here."

"How did you find this?" Abraxas asks.

"Bill Weasley was very helpful," Rispy says.

"Perhaps I underestimated the Weasleys."

"I have it!" Gellert exclaims, holding aloft a crystal. "I'm going to make a lightsaber! Did you— Oh, yes, you've totally got lightsabers there! Show me, show me, I want to see!"

I chuckle. "Patience, young Padawan." I lift my lightsaber and ignite it, the blue blade emerging to shine upon me again.

"It's real?" Gellert says, coming up to look at it. "It's really real?"

"You are not testing this thing by cutting off your hand," I say.

"No, no, I'll take your word on it," Gellert says. "This is totally _awesome_!"

"A magic energy blade?" Abraxas says. "Fascinating."

"You've come this far," I say. "Go ahead. Find a crystal for yourself. You too, Cassie."

"I'm not really much for melee weapons," Cassie says. "But I'm certain that these crystals could be useful nonetheless."

"Useful," Abraxas scoffs. "Look around you! This is a place of the old powers of the world, of primordial magic untouched by wizardkind. This place was here long before anyone crafted wands or uttered words of ancient tongues. Before the fall of Atlantis. Our ancestors used crystals like these as foci for their magic."

Abraxas and Cassie go in and, after a few minutes, return with crystals of their own.

"Shall we go?" Gellert asks.

"Before you ask, Gellert, no, I don't have the parts for another lightsaber built yet," I say.

"Aww."

"I'll give you my notes," I say. "Let's get out of here before Snape sends a search party after me. Oh, did you see my wand? I dropped it when the tunnel flooded."

Cassie waves her wand. " _Accio_ wand." Abraxas' wand flies toward her. She rolls her eyes and hands it back. " _Accio_ Harry's wand." Nothing happens. "What's your wand made of?"

"Pine and dragon heartstring," I say.

" _Accio_ pine and dragon heartstring wand," Cassie casts. This time, after a few moments, my wand emerges from the water, and she hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say. "I can cast spells with my lightsaber, but that might look weird at school."

"You don't seem to have any compunction against looking weird," Gellert says.

Cassie casts a few quick spells to put bubbles around our heads and somehow prevent us from getting wet, and we make our way through the maze, only getting almost lost a few times. By the time we emerge from the flooded tunnels, it has stopped raining, and it's almost dawn. The eastern sky shines, tinging the scattered clouds in pink and yellow as the sun rises above the mountains, casting light upon the sodden ground. And in the west, a glorious rainbow gleams over the valley.

* * *

I return to school, reeling somewhat at the time difference, and still manage to catch a few hours of sleep before morning. After breakfast, I decide to take my new lightsaber to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Fencing Club class. It wouldn't be fair to actually fight them with it. The practice swords we've been using aren't cortosis weave or anything and a lightsaber would just slice right through them. Hermione will be thrilled just to see it, though.

"Hey, all," I say, bringing out the lightsaber hilt. "Look what I've got." I ignite the blade, sending the blue shaft pointing out toward the ceiling.

"A lightsaber?" Hermione says. "But does it work, or is just pretty light?"

"Someone conjure me something to cut," I say.

The sixth year supervisor wiggles his wand and casts, " _Quodurbita_." A medium-sized ripe pumpkin appears on a desk.

"Perfect," I say, nodding to him in thanks. I level my lightsaber at the gourd horizontally. The blue blade neatly burns clean through, no mess and no fuss.

Draco grabs the stem of the pumpkin and pulls off the top half. "Nice."

"I can't believe you actually managed to make a lightsaber," Hermione says. "That is _so cool_."

"Care to see a demonstration?" Rispy says, appearing out of nowhere, wearing what appears to be a small Jedi robe fashioned from a towel.

The class moves to gather around us in a circle, one of them comment, "What a queer house-elf."

"I'm asexual," Rispy replies offhandedly.

We face off, blue against yellow, sparks flying as our blades clash and parry. It has been a fair while since I've had a good lightsaber fight, and Rispy is amazingly skilled. Every move I make, he smoothly counters. I don't need to hold anything back against him, especially not him. For all that I know he wouldn't really die even if I killed him, I'm not even sure if I could manage.

No, damnit, I am the greatest warrior of an age. I will not be stopped. Laughing in glee, I drop into Juyo form. I strike back, hammering at his defenses. This is a _great_ fight! Rispy switches forms without pause between one movement and the next, evading my attacks and trying to take advantage of the openings that my aggressive form leaves. We're both masters of our forms, and it's hard to tell which of us is better.

But it doesn't matter. There are times that a farmer with a rock could defeat a Jedi Master. In rapid movement, I feint, feint again, and knock the lightsaber out of his hand. The yellow blade whooshes out of existence and the hilt clatters to the classroom floor.

Rispy looks at me with a momentary touch of surprise, then grins widely at me and bows graciously. I switch off my lightsaber and return the bow. The other students applaud. I doubt any of them could even follow most of what we were doing, with our rapid thrusts and near-prescient dodges. The first years probably think we were just making a show of it and not really fighting, just flailing about to be impressive.The sixth year is under no illusions. He stares at us openly in dumbfounded awe.

"Nicely done," he manages. "I've never seen a fight like that. Those magic blades are incredible."

"Where does a house-elf learn to use a sword?" Draco wonders.

Ron says, "That was totally wicked."

I hold my lightsaber up in a pose. "I am Lexen Skywalker, Jedi Knight!"

"Aren't you a little short for a Jedi?" Hermione says with a grin.


End file.
